


Screwed

by Zaffie



Series: The Fateful Janitor's Closet [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: And He Screwed Her Over, And His Ill-Timed Flirting, Because Ward Is A Douche, Enough With The Tags Already!, Ew I Kinda Don't Like Him, Except For All The Mops, F/M, Gen, Good Place To Have Sex, Literally And Figuratively, Read The Story Anyway, Skye And Simmons Are BFFs Okay, Skye Is Miserable, Spoilers for 1x17, The Mops Are Watching And Judging You, The Trousers Are A Metaphor, These Tags Are Appallingly Bad, They Totally Had Sex In A Janitor's Closet, Triplett Joined The Team, okay so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 23,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1446757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaffie/pseuds/Zaffie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team has been shaken beyond belief. Ward is Hydra, SHIELD is gone, and they're floating on a plane in the middle of nowhere with enemies on the ground and very little guidance. Obviously, Skye picked a brilliant time to have a personal crisis. Seriously, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 15 Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> 1x17 was possibly the worst and also the best episode of AoS ever. Those who have seen it YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Those who haven't seen it... well you shouldn't be reading this fic. Or the summary for this fic. Really you guys just shouldn't be on the internet. Go away.
> 
> Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. So, obviously this doesn't fit into canon. Hell, at this point, even canon doesn't fit into canon. I have NO IDEA where the show is going yet but I cannot wait to find out.
> 
> Unfortunately my shipper's heart was broken by the last episode (but luckily that's only a small, secondary heart, so I'm totally still alive) and I don't feel like I can write fluffy lovey fics right now. IN THE MEANTIME enjoy this miserable, angsty fic, because reasons. :D

Skye walks into Coulson’s office. “I screwed up,” she says bluntly, because it’s been nearly two months since the last time they saw a Hydra soldier and it’s time for her to fess up.

     Coulson lifts his head. “Are you referring to the incident with the popcorn? Because Fitz was quite clear about the DWARFs being used for menial labour. Or cooking.”

     Skye twists her mouth to the side. “That’s not quite it,” she starts, and feels an overwhelming need to stop. _No,_ she tells herself, squashes her fears ruthlessly, and looks straight at Coulson. “So, AC, remember that one time we all ended up in the Hub when it was being controlled by Hydra?”

     He stares at her, and that’s probably the only reaction Skye should expect for bringing up… _that_ in such a trivial way. It was barely four months ago – which is why she needs to get this over with now. Right now. “Skye,” Coulson says, “what is this about?”

     She opens her mouth and tries to say something sensible and explanatory, but instead she just gets, “Ward.”

     Coulson’s face softens, although there’s a tightening around his lips which Skye knows is anger. “It was a shock to us all,” he promises. “No one blames you. Just because he was your SO – maybe you should talk to Agent Triplett? He experienced a similar betrayal, after all.”

     “No, look, that’s not quite it,” Skye tries again. She can’t help but remember the last time she saw Ward – and _that_ was four months ago too, and she misses his stupid robot face, traitor or no traitor. “Look, I said I screwed up and I meant it. I’m not just blaming myself, Coulson, I have an actual, honest-to-god problem and it’s going to get really serious really fast.”

     Coulson looks at her. He sighs. He says, “Should anyone else in the team be hearing this?”

     “Not yet?” Skye hazards. “I don’t know. It’s your decision, I guess.” She takes a deep breath. “So, the problem.”

     “We seem to be dancing around the problem a lot,” Coulson notes.

     “Uh, yeah. Here’s the thing.” She frowns, thinking. “I’m not meaning to overuse the word ‘screwed’ or anything but… well, I kind of screwed Ward.”

     So far, so good. Coulson’s head hasn’t exploded or anything. Instead, he says calmly, “When was this?”

    Skye chews on her lower lip. “Well – four months ago. We were sort of stuck in this janitor’s closet and there were a lot of guards outside so we-”

     “Got it,” Coulson interrupts. Skye’s glad, because she has no idea how far that sentence was going to go. Yeesh. Mental control? Apparently not.

     “Right, well, normally I wouldn’t be talking to you about that,” Skye continues, “but, uh, I’m totally pregnant and I have this feeling that it’s really going to mess things up.”

     Coulson’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says, and then he can’t seem to manage anything else. His mouth opens and closes a few times but nothing comes out.

     Skye nods ruefully. “Yeah,” she says.

***

Jemma is waiting for her outside Coulson’s office, hopping anxiously from foot to foot.

     “Skye,” she says immediately upon seeing her, “if Fitz is complaining about you stealing – I mean borrowing – the DWARFs, then I can talk to Coulson…”

     “That’s not it,” Skye says heavily.

     “So what is it? You look, well, miserable, to be brutally frank.”

     “I just told Coulson that I screwed Ward – who’s apparently a traitor and a Hydra agent – and also that I’m pregnant now.”

     Jemma gapes. “You did? You are?”

     Skye nods sagely. “So _that_ happened.”

     It takes a little while before either of them speak again. Eventually, Jemma says, “At least you had sex with him once before he – you know. I mean, he’s a very attractive man-”

     “Not helping, Jem,” Skye mutters. “Just… ok?”

     Jemma pats her shoulder awkwardly. “Would you like me to do a blood test? To make sure?”

     “Why not?” Skye says listlessly. “We may as well tell the rest of the team at this point. It’s going to be hard to hide when I start looking like someone’s stuffed a beach-ball down my shirt.”

***

They tramp down the stairs towards the lab, Jemma first and Skye second. Halfway down, Skye pauses, looking over the railings at the punching bag. For a second, she thinks she sees Ward there, waiting for her to come and train.

     He’s not there, of course. Trip is, though, and so is Fitz, who’s developed a sudden taste for combat in recent weeks. It might have something to do with their last mission, which resulted in Jemma having two cracked ribs because she and Fitz couldn’t figure out how to stop the guy who attacked them.

     “Skye,” Jemma says from the bottom of the stairs, “are you coming?”

     She walks down heavily. “Guys, I’m pregnant,” she calls out at the bottom. “Don’t tell me I look fat.”

     Triplett and Fitz spin around to stare at her and the looks on their faces are absolutely priceless. Skye hides a grin behind her hand. She’s kind of hoping that Coulson doesn’t tell May before she has a chance to get to the older woman. News like this might actually cause May to have a _facial expression._

***

The results of the blood test are back by dinner. Although they didn’t show anything that Skye wasn’t expecting (yes, she’s pregnant, big surprise) they still kind of ruin her appetite. She hides out in her bunk and writes angry letters to Ward on her computer. He’s never going to see them, but it makes her feel a little bit better.

     Jemma knocks and sticks her head cautiously around the door. “Are you okay?” she asks.

     “Peachy,” Skye says sarcastically.

     To her credit, the scientist ignores Skye’s grumbling. “I wanted to let you know that I have the equipment for an ultrasound downstairs, in case you want one,” she tells Skye.

     “I don’t want one.”

     “It would confirm that the baby’s physically healthy and that its development is on track,” Jemma continues. “We might even be able to find out the sex.”

     “I don’t care if the baby’s healthy,” Skye spits out. “It would solve a lot of my problems if the stupid thing just _died._ ”

     Jemma backs out of the bunk looking more wounded than Skye has ever seen her before.

     Skye tells herself firmly that she regrets nothing she just said. _Nothing_.


	2. 17 Weeks

They get a buzz to the briefing room in the early hours of the morning. Normally, Skye would have just stumbled along in her pyjamas, but she’s been feeling weird around the team since she announced her pregnancy. It’s been two weeks, and no one has exactly been treating her with kid gloves, but she’s still uncomfortable.

     Her jeans are too tight when she buttons them. She ignores it.

     “Hey,” Skye says when she finally arrives. “Sorry I’m late to the party. What’s going on?”

     Coulson doesn’t look at her when he explains. “They think they’ve found a few of the people who Garrett and Ward busted out of the Fridge.”

     “Hydra? Again?” Skye exclaims. “I thought we were done with them!”

     “It’s hard to be done with Hydra,” Coulson mutters.

     “I know, I know. Cut off one head, yada yada.” She pauses. “Is, uh, Ward there?”

     “It doesn’t matter,” May says grimly. “He’s not with us anymore.”

   Skye looks down and sticks her hands deep into her pockets. Behind her, she feels Jemma’s hand between her shoulder blades, rubbing up and down sympathetically.

     “ _But_ ,” Coulson says, giving May a hard look, “if Ward and Garrett _are_ there we need to seriously consider our options. Garrett might be one of the few people with knowledge that we need who we can actually access.”

     “You’re saying we should interrogate them?” Trip asks. He scratches his neck. “I was trained by Garrett, sir. He’s pretty impervious to most forms of questioning.”

     “He’s never met May.” Coulson frowns. "Well, he has met May, obviously, but I mean... never mind." He looks at Jemma and asks, “Do you feel ready to come with us?”

     “Oh, yes, sir,” she says immediately. “I feel fine, honestly.”

     “It’s only been a few weeks since her injury, sir,” Fitz interrupts. Jemma smacks him in the chest with the back of her hand.

     “I’m going to leave it to Simmons to make the decision,” Coulson says.

     Skye holds her breath and waits for him to tell her that she can’t come – that it’s too dangerous for her. The baby that she never wanted is going to keep her away from the missions that are the most vital.

     To his credit, Coulson barely even looks at her. He nods, briskly, instructs the team to get ready, and marches away. Skye lets out her breath unevenly.

     It’s May who comes up behind Skye and asks, “Are you sure you can do this?”

     Skye licks her lips unconsciously. “I’m fine,” she says harshly. “Worry about yourself.”

***

“Would you stop pacing?” Raina says at last. “It’s not going to make them come any faster.”

     They’re waiting in the second-floor room of a hotel, having just released dozens of SHIELD’s most undesirable enemies in the lobby. Ward is about to confront his former team for the first time in four months, and the security cameras that they are _trying_ to monitor are on the fritz. He thinks he has good reason to pace.

     Apparently, so does Garrett, because the man pulls a wry smile and says, “Aw, leave him be, Raina. He’s just nervous.”

     That actually does make Ward stop pacing, because he hates the idea of seeming nervous. “I’m just ready for action,” he corrects. “How do you even know they’ll come?”

     “Because I know,” Garrett laughs.

     “And how do you know Coulson will bring her?”

     “He’ll bring her,” the older agent says confidently. “Hell, at this point, I probably know Coulson better than he knows himself.”

     Ward grits his teeth and walks over to the window. Nothing. He walks back to the monitor and slaps the side of his hand against it, which doesn’t achieve anything.

     “You’re making _me_ nervous,” Raina tells him.

     Ward doesn’t think she sounds nervous. She doesn’t sound much of anything, really, and her emotionless voice and constantly calm exterior is getting on his nerves. “I’m not _nervous_ ,” he snarls.

     “He’s excited to see his girl again,” Garrett chuckles. “You’ll like Skye, once you get to know her, Raina. She’s a good kid.”

     Abruptly, the monitor blinks back to life and Ward sees the scene down in the lobby. “You were right,” he tells Garrett. “They’re here.”

     “Time to go and say hello, I think,” the man smiles, and his eyes gleam eagerly.

***

Skye doesn’t know how she got separated from the group. She was chasing some guy, and he hurtled down a flight of stairs. She (foolishly) followed him, and now she’s standing in this creepy empty corridor and the dude has completely disappeared. Like, legitimate vanishing.

     “Hey!” she yells, and then senses a movement behind her. She whirls without thinking, the gun in her hands, and someone grabs the muzzle and points it at the floor.

     “Drawing attention to yourself by yelling,” a painfully familiar voice says. “I swear I taught you better than that.”

     Skye can’t look at his face. She can’t. She stares at his hands instead, holding her gun, and that’s almost worse, because she remembers him prepping her before the mission in Malta and how she’d spun into his arms. She’d felt so _safe_ there, even after knowing him for such a short time, so, of course, she’d tried to cover her feelings with jokes and teasing.

     “Let go of me,” she manages in a choked whisper. She remembers when Ward had taught her to shoot, and how he’d actually cracked a smile when she’d whispered ‘bang’. It was the first time she’d seen him smile.

     “Skye,” Ward says softly. “Please look at me.”

     _No_ , she thinks. No, I _can’t_ , please don’t make me. She feels physically sick. She might throw up on Ward’s shoes. Well, that would serve him right, the bastard – but even thinking badly of him makes her feel sick. She’d really… they’d really… she had _trusted_ him, so absolutely _implicitly_.

     There’s a voice in her earpiece. “ _Skye_.”

     Ward says her name at the same time. “Skye.”

     She can’t focus. “Go away, Ward,” she says, loudly enough for her team to pick it up.

     “ _Stay with him, Skye._ ”

     “I’m not going anywhere,” Ward says. “None of this is personal, Skye, you have to understand. SHIELD is corrupt – it’s ruined. An empty organisation full of holes patched with lies. SHIELD is a sinking ship. It’s time for us to leave.”

     “I thought only _rats_ left sinking ships,” Skye shoots back at him instantly.

     Ward twists her gun neatly away from her and puts his hand in the small of her back, propelling her forwards. “If you’d let me explain-”

     “Nothing you can say is going to make me forgive you.” Skye finally looks up at him and she feels a lump in the back of her throat, and the stinging of tears in her eyes. She blinks them away angrily. Ward looks the same, exactly the same as she remembers him, although there’s a fine line carving down his right cheekbone. She remembers that bloody wound. It’s been the last picture of Ward she’s had in her head for the past four months – his split lip and the cuts on his cheek and over his eyebrow. She can’t forget it.

     “Actions speak louder than words,” Ward says, as if he’s reciting something he’s been told many times before. “Let me _show_ you the truth, Skye.”

     She doesn’t know how far they’ve moved. She doesn’t know if her team can find her. “I don’t trust you, Ward.” She balks; digs her heels in and stops in the middle of the corridor. “Where the hell are we going?”

     Her earpiece crackles, and she waits for instructions, but none come.

     “You’re safe,” Ward promises. He sighs, sounding exactly like the impatient SO she used to know. “Would you just listen to me?”

     “ _Skye._ ” She doesn’t think Coulson’s voice in her ear has ever been more welcome. “ _Delay him. Fitz has a lock on your position. Give us fifteen minutes to get there._ ”

     Fifteen minutes, she thinks, and Ward starts trying to push her forwards again. In fifteen minutes, she could be on a helicopter out of here. “Ward.”

     “We can talk soon, Skye. Just keep moving.”

     She turns around so that they’re face to face. She stares up at him. “You left me,” she says in a quiet voice, and really, this doesn’t feel like acting. “It’s been _four months_ , and you just left me without a word.” Ruthlessly, she crushes the part of her that is screaming that Ward’s Hydra; that she hates him now. She can’t remember that she hates him. “You didn’t even say goodbye,” she whispers, and feels the tears spring back to her eyes. Good. Let them come.

     Ward’s face crumples. He’s still horrendously attractive, even when he’s making such a pitiful expression. “You were never a part of the plan,” he whispers. “I knew what I was getting into when I joined Coulson’s team. I trained to mingle with them – to make them trust me.”

     Skye can’t handle hearing this. She can’t. She’s going to snap and punch him in his stupid face. “You made me trust you too.”

     “But that’s just it, Skye! I never planned for you. You were… something new. Something different. I let you get under my skin like no one else could.”

     This is quite possibly the worst deep-and-meaningful conversation Skye has ever had. _With anyone_. Including that time that Carl Braithwaite gave her graphic details of the night he lost his virginity.

     “Why didn’t you tell me about Hydra? Why didn’t you tell me who you really were?”

     “You know who I really am!” he protests. “I’m the same person I always was. I had to be honest around you – I couldn’t help it.”

     “I’ve missed you,” she says. “So much. You have no idea.”

     “It’s going to be okay, Skye,” he tells her.

     “ _Ten minutes, Skye. Hang on._ ”

     “Come with me.” Ward is staring at her earnestly and there is no way she can talk at him for another ten minutes.

     “I will,” Skye says. “When I’m ready.” And then she does literally the only thing she can think of in this situation – she lunges up and grabs Ward’s face, pulling it down to her own and kissing him, hard.

     After a stunned few seconds, Ward responds, eagerly. He has to bend down to reach her mouth – stupid tall people, Skye thinks. His hands run down her shoulders and tug at her ponytail. She remembers him doing this last time; playing with her hair.

     “You can take it out,” she mumbles. “If that’s what you want.”

     Ward yanks on the hairband and Skye’s hair tumbles down around her face. He threads his fingers through it and quickly, Skye kisses him again. Keep him occupied, she tells herself. There’s nothing wrong with this. You’re just taking one for the team.

     Suddenly, the kiss gets more heated. They’re stumbling backwards, locked together, and Skye hits the wall of the corridor. Ward kisses his way down her neck. His hands slide under the hem of her shirt.

     There is too much going on in Skye’s mind for her to enjoy any of this. On the one hand, she has to keep the façade up – and so she’s desperately thinking through how she would normally respond to everything he’s doing and trying to act it out – and on the other hand, she needs to remember why she’s doing this. She’s not doing this for Ward. There is no Ward – not the way she thinks of him. This guy is a total stranger, and an evil stranger at that.

     “Take your shirt off,” Ward says.

     “You first,” she retorts. She tugs at Ward’s shirt and he reaches over his head to grab the collar and pull it off. Skye watches his rippling muscles move and for a split second, she forgets everything. He’s just _Ward_ and she’s running her hands down his chest.

     “Skye,” Ward breathes against her neck. He fumbles the zipper on her jacket down and Skye shrugs her shoulders to shake it off. Ward pulls up the hem of her tank top. She raises her arms to help him, even though this is the last thing she wants to be doing right now. “You’re beautiful,” Ward tells her. She thinks she might be sick.

     His hands are everywhere, burning her, branding her. She can feel his stubble on her cheek and smell something that is musky and uniquely _Ward_. He kisses above her bra, between her breasts, and Skye shudders. She hopes he’ll take it for the good kind of shudder. He’s kneeling now, kissing a line down her stomach – and, suddenly, he stops.

     _Ohgodohgodohgod_. Skye starts breathing faster. Her heart is thumping. Her body knows that something bad is about to happen, even if her mind hasn’t caught up yet.

     “Skye.” Ward’s voice has changed. “What is this?”

     No, please, she thinks. This can’t be happening. “Nothing.”

     His hand is splayed over her lower belly, where her tiny baby bump is – yes, quite clearly showing. “Tell me.”

     “Okay, so I gained a few pounds,” she joked. “Wow, I didn’t think you’d be the type to hold that against a girl.”

     “This isn’t fat,” Ward says. “Skye – are you – did you-”

     “I didn’t _do_ anything,” she interrupts, “and if you’re just going to make personal remarks then I don’t think we need to be doing this right now.” She bends for her tank and pulls it over her head.

     Slowly, Ward stands up. His hand is still warm on her stomach. “You’re pregnant,” he says numbly.

     “No, I’m not.”

     “It’s mine.”

     “No, it’s not.”

     “Skye. Oh, my god, Skye, we’re going to have a baby!”

     She shoves his hand away viciously. “ _No_ , we’re _not.”_

Footsteps echo down the corridor suddenly and Skye closes her eyes. Her team is here.

     “What did you do?” Ward asks. “Did you call them?”

     “Of course I called them! You’re a traitor, remember? We’re not on the same side.” Skye puts her jacket back on and zips it up.

     Ward picks up his shirt. “Come with me.”

     “Never.”

***

     The team rounds the corner and Ward is gone. Skye stands, alone, in the corridor, breathing hard and staring blankly at her hands.

     “Skye!” Jemma yelps. “Are you okay?” She wants to ask about the baby, but doesn’t quite dare.

     “I’m fine,” Skye says. “I tried to delay him, you guys, I’m sorry.”

     “As long as you’re okay,” Coulson says. “Where was he taking you? Did he say?”

     “No.” Skye looks up, and Jemma is startled by the sheer lack of any kind of expression on her face. “The last thing Ward said,” the hacker continues tonelessly, “was that he was going to take his baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I don't mind letting you guys know that this was one of the toughest chapters I've written yet. I've put my versions of Skye through physical pain before, but never something this emotionally trying. I didn't enjoy it, either.
> 
> Also, while I agree it might seem strange to give the antagonist (as it were) a voice in all of this, yes, I will continue to have POV pieces from Ward.


	3. 18 Weeks

Skye’s heart is pounding when she wakes up. A nightmare – another nightmare. She’s surprised at how easily she’s getting used to them.

     Leaning over, she flicks on the light beside her bunk and draws her knees up to her chest. For a few minutes, she just sits and breathes. She rests her chin on her knees. She stares straight ahead and tries to find small things to focus on. The feeling of her chest rising and falling. The gleam of metal in front of her that is the doorhandle on her closet. The moonlight bleeding in around her window shade. The fluttering feeling in her belly – wait. No.

     Carefully, Skye uncurls her legs and stares down. She presses her hand across the little bump and waits – and then she feels it again. It’s so very small, like butterflies when you’re nervous or maybe some kind of muscle spasm. She wants to think that’s all it is.

     She knows it isn’t. Carefully, Skye touches the outside of her stomach. “Hi,” she whispers. “Hi, baby.”

     It flutters again and Skye sucks in a sharp breath that turns into hiccupping sobs. She presses both hands to her mouth and hopes that no one else on the plane can hear her. God knows what they think of her after that last incident – she practically had a meltdown after confronting Ward and _man_ , was it embarrassing.

     Flicking off the light, she lies back on her bed. She can’t remember the nightmare now anyway, so she’ll be okay. She closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep with the tiny sensations of movement within her.

***

It’s been more than a week since Ward saw Skye. “You promised we’d find her,” he says to Garrett, and it sounds like an accusation.

     The older agent turns on him with a stern glare. “I need you to _calm down_ ,” he stresses. “So, she’s having your kid. That doesn’t change anything.”

     It changes everything, Ward thinks, but he doesn’t say it. That’s a pretty weak sentiment, after all. “I want the kid, Garrett. It’s mine.”

     His former SO rolls his eyes. “I know, I know,” Garrett mutters, “but look, you said it’s been what – four months? You’ve got plenty of time before the kid even exists as a real person, and besides. It’s Skye who’s invaluable to us.”

     Sometimes, Ward silently seethes at the single-minded focus of Hydra. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand why they’re doing this – because he does. He knows all too well what people can be like when left to their own devices; he’s witnessed it firsthand. But would it really be so bad to drift off on a bit of a tangent – to focus on his baby, instead of Skye’s blood?

    He doesn’t say any of this, of course. A good soldier keeps his mouth shut, and Grant Ward has never been anything but a good soldier. Still, there’s nothing keeping him with Garrett – not right now, anyway. Maybe it’s time for him to leave. Time for him to move on, and pursue his own interests for a change.

***

“Can I talk to you?” Fitz asks, intercepting Skye at the top of the stairs.

     She shrugs. “Sure. I was thinking about heading down to the lab anyway. I wanted to talk to Jemma.”

     “You should have an ultrasound,” the man notes. “That’s what Jemma keeps saying, anyway.”

     “I know,” Skye mutters. “It’s just… what if my kid is a psychotic killer like its father?”

     “Well _that’s_ not fair, now, is it? Ward was all right most of the time.”

     “Yeah, until he snapped and murdered three people in cold blood… plus a whole bunch more that we don’t even know about.”

     “That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you,” the Scot admits. “See, I know I don’t exactly broadcast my family situation – but I know a little bit about useless fathers.”

     Skye stares at him. She’s shocked, and Fitz isn’t surprised. Most people react this way, when he tells them. “Fitz?” she questions.

     “Yeah, my dad was a bit of a loser,” he says. “Drunk too much, beat us up – you know the drill. He would get so violent with my wee sister.”

     “I’m so sorry,” Skye whispers.

     “It’s all right now. Anyway, I’m not telling you this for sympathy. I’m telling you because… well, I was really scared, for a long time. I had a girlfriend, in my teens-”

     “No way!” Skye exclaims.

     “Oh, shut up. I was young, and she was young, and we had a fight. You know how it is. But the thing is; I just snapped. I slapped her across the face and she cried and I felt as if _he_ was there, watching me. I knew that I was going to be like him no matter what.”

     “You are beyond a doubt the sweetest guy I know,” Skye tells him. “Seriously.”

     Fitz smiles. “Funny. That’s just what Jemma said. She was the first person to tell me that, you know? To tell me that I had a choice. That I didn’t have to be like my father. I mean, I’d just grown up thinking it was inevitable – and here she was, saying that no, it wasn’t like that.”

     The woman takes a deep breath. “You’re saying I shouldn’t blame the baby, aren’t you?”

     “Well… yeah, that was the general gist of it. Yeah.”

     “Even though it was an ‘oops’ baby and it’s going to screw up my entire life?”

     “Yeah.”

     Skye blows a strand of hair away from her forehead. “I was going down to get an ultrasound,” she admits. “I think I felt the baby moving last night.”

     “You did?” Fitz yelps. “Can I feel?” He presses his palm on her stomach but all he can feel is Skye laughing.

     “Okay, firstly, that’s like my intestines. I hope you’re not feeling anyone moving in _there,”_ she says, moving his hand lower down. “I think it’s too early for you to feel.”

     “Can I come with you, then? Down to the lab?”

     “Yeah, of course,” Skye says. Her eyes shine at him. “I’m grateful, you know. That you told me.”

   “Your baby is going to have a family, Skye,” Fitz says. “Just like you do.”

***

“Okay,” Jemma says seriously. The gel is cold where it touches Skye’s skin. “Are you ready?”

     She thinks about saying, _hell no_ , but that’s not quite true anymore. “Go ahead.”

     A fast, steady beat fills the room. Jemma says, “That’s the heartbeat.”

     “Yeah, I guessed.”

     The monitor is facing her, and Skye doesn’t want to look at it. She looks up at Fitz instead, standing beside her head. He grins encouragingly, and nods.

     “Is it healthy?”

     “I, ah, I think so,” Jemma says.

     “Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Skye grumbles.

     The other woman tears her gaze away from the screen and glares down at her. “Well I wasn’t exactly _trained_ as a medical professional, you know, but just try telling anyone on this ship that.”

     “Plane, not ship.”

     “Don’t be a pedant,” Coulson says from behind her, and Skye snaps her head around.

     “Decided to add ‘grandfather-figure’ to your list, have you?” she asks him.

     “Secretly,” he tells her, “you are pleased that I am here. I will ignore your general rudeness.”

     Skye sighs. “Thanks, AC.”

     Jemma murmurs, “Skye. Look.”

     Slowly, reluctantly, she turns her face to the monitor. She hears Fitz suck in a breath, but then all she sees is the black-and-white form of her baby, starkly outlined in front of her. “Oh.”

     “Oh,” Fitz agrees.

     “I see it,” Skye murmurs. The baby – _her_ baby – has a huge freaking head and tiny little arms, which it waves occasionally in sharp, sudden jerks. Its little legs are curled up underneath it.

     “Here,” Jemma says, and then she touches a button on the monitor and throws a holographic, 3D, spinning projection of Skye’s baby up in front of them all.

     “Well, this is creepy,” Skye notes. Her child is spinning in a blue hologram above her and – oh – it’s sucking its thumb.

     “That is ridiculously precious,” Fitz says. “It almost looks like a tiny baby monkey.”

     “Do you want to know the gender?” Jemma asks, and Skye doesn’t hesitate.

     “Please.”

     The hologram vanishes, and Jemma moves the wand about a bit more, and then she says, “Okay, I can’t be absolutely certain…”

     “Why not?” Skye protests. “Either it has a penis or it doesn’t, it’s not rocket science, Jem.”

     “I can do rocket science!” Fitz adds helpfully.

     “It’s a girl,” Jemma says at last. “I’m not quite sure, but it looks like a girl.”

     “If it’s born with a penis, I won’t hold it against you,” Skye promises, and then she reaches up and pulls Jemma down for a hug. “I have a baby girl,” she whispers into her friend’s ear.

     The biochemist steps back and smiles broadly at Skye. “She’s going to be so smart.”

     “And pretty,” Fitz says.

     Jemma rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Fitz, for being shallow.”

     “That’s not shallow!” Fitz cries. “It’s just stating a-”

     “No, it’s shallow, to only mention the appearance first because it’s a _girl_ and-”

     “Oh, well that’s not fair, how do you know I wouldn’t have said it would be pretty if it was a boy? Ward is pretty.”

     “No he isn’t – well but that’s not the point, Fitz!”

   In the midst of the bickering, Coulson claps his hand on Skye’s shoulder and bends down to say, “Congratulations.”

     “Coulson,” Skye whispers, “I can’t let him take her.”

     “I know,” Coulson nods. “But don’t worry. I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, wasn't that fun and feel-goody? Yay :D Prepare for more angst. But also much awesome. Which I can't warn you about because spoilers, but seriously. I am looking forward to this awesome.


	4. 22 Weeks

It’s early morning when Fury calls – and Skye knows it’s Fury because Coulson’s yell echoes across the entire bus.

     “That’s funny,” Fitz says, looking up from the jam which he is liberally spreading on his toast. “I thought Fury was dead.”

     “Must have pulled a Coulson,” Skye mumbles through a mouthful of bread and butter.

     Jemma stares at both of them and throws up her arms in exasperation. “You two!”

     Fitz looks at Skye. She shrugs. “What?”

     “You’re so calm! Stop it! Stop being so calm!”

     Skye snickers. May walks in to the kitchen and gives them all a brief once-over – as though she’s checking they aren’t doing illegal drugs or something – and then she says, “Fury is alive.”

     “So we heard,” Fitz agrees.

     Jemma groans in frustration and turns towards May. “What happened?”

     May shrugs. “Apparently he faked it.”

     “And he waited five _months_ to tell us?”

     “Coulson’s having words with him about that now,” May says. “You can go and join him, if you want, Simmons.”

     Skye presses a palm to her stomach and wrinkles her nose. “Is it normal for babies to, like somersault? Is that what she’s doing? Should I be worried?”

     “I’m sure it’s fine,” Jemma says absently. “Does that mean Fury is still the director?”

     “I want to see the tiny baby somersaults!” Fitz chimes in. “Can Skye get another ultrasound?”

     “Ask Coulson,” May says. She vanishes back towards the cockpit.

     “No more ultrasounds,” Jemma tells them firmly. “And stop using me as your medical textbook! You need to read up on babies!”

***

Coulson comes into the lounge twenty minutes later, looking frazzled. Skye is reclining on the sofa with her feet propped up on the coffee table, and Fitz is lying on his back underneath an armchair. Jemma is curled into a tight ball with something called _What To Expect When You’re Expecting_ and is flipping the pages leisurely.

     “I suppose May’s told you all about Fury,” he says bitterly.

     “What happened, sir?” Fitz asks. Jemma doesn’t look up from her book, but Skye can almost _see_ the scientist’s ears prick up.

     “From what I can gather, Hydra made an assassination attempt which he barely survived,” Coulson explains. “He subsequently decided to go off the grid and it only recently occurred to him that he should maybe call and let me know he was okay.”

     “Dick move,” Skye offers helpfully.

     Jemma says, “Skye, look at this diagram,” and leans over to hand her the book.

     Skye takes it, looks at the picture, pretends to retch and tosses the book back at Jemma. “Don’t show me stuff like that,” she says. “That was incredibly gross.”

     Fitz pops his head up from under the armchair. “What was it? Can I see?”

     “No, Fitz,” Jemma snaps. “Skye, you should really be reading this, not me.”

     Coulson sighs heavily and sinks onto the sofa beside Skye. She looks at him sideways, and can tell he’s shaken by all this. “It’s all right, AC,” she says comfortingly. “At least Fury _is_ alive. This is good news, really.”

     “It’s complicated news,” Coulson mutters. “Fury will have an agenda – he always does.”

     Skye rests a hand over her baby bump. It’s weird, how natural this feels already. “He’s still one more ally,” she reminds the older man. “So that’s something to be grateful for.”

     Coulson looks at her sideways, with something in his face that she can’t quite identify. Surprise, maybe, or amusement. “You never cease to amaze me,” he tells her. “Nothing gets you down, does it?”

     Skye shrugs. “What do you mean?”

     He laughs. “Well, look at you! You’ve joined SHIELD – and now SHIELD is gone and you _still_ don’t know who you are, except that you might be some kind of 0-8-4. You were given a drug that we know literally nothing about and you’re pregnant with the baby of a man who is now our enemy.”

     “That’s a depressing description.”

     “I know! But that’s why I’m amazed, Skye. Your life would be enough to subdue a much older, wiser person and here you are, teaching _me_ how to look on the bright side.”

     Slowly, Skye registers the compliment in his words. Shyly, she lets her mouth curve into a smile.

***

“I’m disappointed,” Garrett tells him. “You didn’t grab the girl when we had the chance and now you’re just fixated on this baby.”

     Ward hangs his head. He hates the way Garrett’s admonishments always make him feel like a child. “I know Skye is important-”

     “You’re damn right she’s important!” Garrett snaps. “Raina needs her blood to keep working. _Her_ blood, Grant, not anyone else’s. We need her here, now, or even yesterday, and we need her alive.”

     “And I need her to _stay_ alive until my baby is born!” Ward exclaims.

     “This discussion isn’t doing anyone any good until you find her,” Garrett says darkly. “I thought you said you knew how to get her.”

     “I did! I do,” he protests. “Just give me another shot.”

     “Yeah, all right,” Garrett says. “Because I know you deserve it. But, Ward, after this one? I’m sending in the _real_ professionals; and they might not be as gentle as you.”

     Ward doesn’t understand why he craves the idea of this baby so much, he thinks, as he walks away. It’s the thought of having something that is his to protect. He was supposed to protect his brother, and he didn’t. Maybe if he has another chance at being someone’s protector, and he doesn’t screw it up this time, he’ll finally start feeling better.

     It’s the love that he wants, too. The idea of his son – or daughter, he reminds himself – who will look at him with those adoring eyes and say, “Daddy,” in a tiny voice and want to be just like him. Ward’s never really had that; someone looking up to him like that. He’s never had the admiration and the unconditional love that children shower upon their parents. He thinks he’d like a chance at that happiness.

     Obviously, if he wants the baby, then he has to have Skye, because right now they are a package deal. Ward isn’t stupid – he doesn’t really believe that Garrett intends to keep Skye safe for the full term of her pregnancy. It’s possible, he supposes, that his old mentor would try and do it for him – but ultimately their goal and Raina’s research trumps the life of Ward’s child.

     In that case, he has to take steps to protect it, even before it’s born. He sees two options. He can take Skye somewhere safe; somewhere where Hydra can’t find her, and wait with her there until the baby is born. Then he can call Garret. Alternatively, he can take Skye straight to Garrett and prepare her to run if he thinks things are starting to get too dangerous.

     Whatever Ward does, he needs the baby to be with him. He’s going to redeem himself by protecting it. This is _his_ chance at a new life, and no one can take that away from him.


	5. 25 Weeks

Fury is in Norway, which he eventually reveals to Coulson only when their plane is too far away for them to make it there. They don’t have enough fuel.

     Coulson makes the call for them to drop down in Washington DC. They know the Triskelion has fallen – literally fallen – but for the moment, it’s a safe place for them to recuperate.

     “I have friends here,” Coulson explains. “We’ll need to talk to them.”

     They aren’t far off-grid, though. The last Skye’s heard, Ward is in North Carolina – and that was a couple of weeks ago. He’s nowhere near far enough for her liking. She’d feel better if he was in a different country. Given that Hydra agents are landlocked, though, it’s unlikely that Ward would make it here. There’s no way he can find her.

     Skye keeps telling herself that, even though it doesn’t feel true. He’s been trying to talk to her; texts, emails, frustrating messages left on Rising Tide forums – it’s as if he knows all of her places. The Internet used to be a haven, but he’s made it a battleground.

     “Jasmine,” Fitz says as they walk down the lowered cargo ramp. “Jasmine is a good name.”

     Skye waits for Jemma to say something exasperated (“Oh, for god’s sake, Fitz!”) but when nothing is forthcoming, she jumps in herself. “We said no more Disney names, Fitz.”

     He’s been spouting off a never-ending list of names for the past week. It’s been Ariel and Pocahontas and Belle, Aurora (“I’m sure she was called Briar Rose in the book _I_ read,” Jemma had said thoughtfully) Cinderella and Mulan, which, horrifyingly, May actually agreed with.

     “She’s a strong female character and a warrior,” she’d said, walking past the kitchen.

     “Mulan is badass,” Skye had agreed, “but I’m not naming my daughter after her.” And that was that.

     “Jasmine isn’t really a Disney name,” Fitz tries to protest now. “I know lots of people called Jasmine.”

     “It’s actually rather pretty,” Jemma agrees.

     “Guys. No. Come on.”

     They pile into the SUV still chattering. Fitz sits between Jemma and Skye, because he’s skinny and takes up less room.

     “I don’t understand why you won’t even consider any of my suggestions,” he whinges as he hunts for his seatbelt.

     “Because they’re awful! Besides, I think it’s silly to name a baby before it’s born. What if I call her… Emma, or something, and she comes out looking like a Nicole?”

     “You can always change your mind when she’s born,” Jemma suggests.

     From the front seat, Coulson says, “Can we please focus?”

     The plan is to drop him off in some undisclosed meeting location and then for the rest of them to go shopping and stock up on supplies. Honestly, there isn’t enough room in the SUV for everyone – which doesn’t deter them. Jemma ends up perched across Fitz and Triplett, a position Skye would have volunteered for if she wasn’t carrying extra weight. Jemma and Trip have been awkward around each other for a while, and this probably isn’t helping. Skye’s going to have to talk to the scientist about that at some stage. What is going on with those two?

     When Coulson gets out of the car, he sticks his head in the back window and eyes Skye sternly through his sunglasses. “Be careful,” he says.

     She salutes him. “Yes _sir_ ,” she says snappily.

     Coulson ignores her. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

     Skye thinks it’s kind of cute that the whole team has rallied around her. They’re being crazy protective, and although she complains, secretly she finds it adorable.

     Now that the front seat is free, they can spread out a little bit. Skye climbs through from the back seat into the front, because she’s the only one without a Jemma on her lap. The way she manoeuvres her body has changed since the pregnancy. Her hips don’t move the way they used to. Her stomach muscles barely respond (are they even there?) but she manages to slide into the new seat anyway. The guys in the back spread out and May revs the engine as Coulson disappears down a shady back alley.

***

He doesn’t return until the evening, when they’re all back from their shopping trip and are eating ice-cream in the lounge. Well. May isn’t eating ice-cream – but, then, Skye doesn’t actually know if May _ever_ eats, so that’s probably not a big deal.

     “We’ve got a problem,” he says when he walks in.

     “What?” Skye asks.

     “Who?” May says at the same time. They glance at each other.

     “Hydra,” Coulson says grimly, and then he looks at the both of them and rolls his eyes. “I mean, really, were you expecting anything else?”

     “What now?” Fitz groans.

     Trip, who has fascinated Skye by piling five different flavours of ice-cream into his bowl and then stirring it until it melted into a multi-colour mess, asks, “Is it Garrett? Because honestly, sir, the way he’s following our team around – it’s not natural. He wants something. I’m sure of it.” He waves his spoon to accentuate his point and specks of ice-cream fly off and hit Fitz, who growls and turns his back to the offending specialist.

     Coulson points his finger at Triplett. Then he does it a couple more times, obviously searching for his words. Eventually, he manages, “You’ve hit the, ah…”

     “Moose on the noggin,” Fitz supplies, and everyone stares at him. “What?”

     “Nail on the head,” Jemma corrects eventually. “Oh Fitz.”

     Coulson snaps his fingers at her. “Exactly. Nail on the head. Garrett _is_ after something – and none of you are going to like this. He’s after Skye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter and the last one have been a bit short - but that's really just because each chapter covers more or less a week of Skye's pregnancy, and I need the pregnancy to be progressing. So I'm making the chapters shorter but the overall length of the story longer. Does that... make sense? I've got tonsilitis right now, so sorry if I'm talking nonsense. xD


	6. 26 Weeks

They spend three days in Washington DC while Coulson ‘networks’.

     “I have a plan,” he explains to Skye. “It’s a good plan.” He then spends the next three days refusing to tell her what it is.

     Eventually, he tells May to set a course for Alaska. Skye sleeps on the journey, which takes several hours. She’s noticing that she’s more tired recently, although that could be less to do with the pregnancy and more to do with the constant stress and pressure that they’ve all been under.

     She’s startled awake by a firm kick from the baby, and she rubs her hand down over her belly in a pretty futile attempt at soothing it.

     “You’re awake,” Triplett notes. He’s sitting on an armchair in front of her and staring at her.

     “Um, yeah,” Skye says. “Were you watching me sleep?”

     He grins broadly. “No. But Jem – Simmons – did ask me to keep an eye on you while we landed, since you weren’t buckled in.”

     “Oh,” Skye says, and then she registers what he’s said properly. “We’ve landed?”

     “Yep. Everyone’s waiting in the cargo bay.” He stands up and offers her his hand, and Skye takes it with a wry smile and lets him pull her to her feet.

     “Chivalry,” she notes.

     “Guess it’s not dead after all,” Trip says, and leads the way down the stairs.

***

They’ve been waiting for exactly nineteen minutes. “What are we doing here, AC?” Skye asks.

     “Be patient,” Coulson says for the third time. Or the fourth time. Skye can’t remember.

     “I’m an incredibly _im_ patient person!” she protests. “Argh!”

     “The suspense is killing her, sir,” Fitz supplies helpfully.

     Skye points at him. “Exactly.” She shoots Fitz a look that she hopes says, ‘thanks for supporting me’ but which he’ll probably interpret as ‘I appreciate your desperate need for a monkey’. Or something. Sometimes Skye actually thinks they should give Fitz a monkey, just for kicks. He seems like someone who can relate well to monkeys.

     “Coulson,” May says quietly. She’s looking down the cargo ramp, into the swirling ice and snow beyond. Everyone follows her gaze.

     There’s a figure walking towards the plane. In a puffy navy blue coat, hood pulled over their head, they are impossible to recognise. Gradually, they come closer.

     “Welcome!” Coulson yells out into the snow.

     The person steps onto the ramp and stamps heavily a few times, shaking the snow from their boots and trousers. They lift their head and Skye sees that there is a black scarf wrapped around the person’s entire lower face, from the nose downwards.

    “Coulson,” they say in a threatening voice.

     He’s practically blushing. “I should have told you, I know, I know. Blame Fury, not me. Honestly…”

     The person walks into the cargo bay fully, examining them. Skye finds herself fixed with a steady gaze from a pair of slanted green eyes. It’s piercing, and she almost wants to take a step back – and then the eyes move on and find their way to Coulson again.

     “I can’t believe you let us all think you were dead,” the newcomer says in exasperation. “Barton is going to be furious.” In a swift movement, they pull the scarf from their face and the hood from their head, letting red curls tumble to their shoulders. “That’s better,” the woman says. She glances over at May and inclines her head. “May.”

     “Romanoff,” May returns in kind, and suddenly Skye knows who this is. She’s about to squeal like a fangirl, but Trip beats her to the punch.

     “Oh my god,” he says, and everyone stares at him. “Agent Romanoff?”

     The woman’s mouth twitches like she’s holding back a smile. “Yeah?”

     “Wow. Just… just wow.” Skye is amazed that Trip is not hyperventilating right now.

     Natasha Romanoff, aka _the freaking Black Widow_ , unzips her puffy coat. “You can close the ramp now,” she suggests. “It’s cold in here.”

***

They head upstairs, all in varying stages of excitement. Fitz is practically skipping. Trip quietly excused himself and went off somewhere, probably to cry in heartfelt joy.

     Skye’s just sort of numb to the whole thing. It’s like… that moment when you glimpse an actor across a crowded LA street, and you can’t quite believe who you’re seeing. People look different when they’re real. It’s hard to look at someone flesh-and-blood and visualise a hero. Romanoff’s nose is pink from cold, and there are faint circles beneath her eyes, like bruises. In spite of that, though, she still carries herself with absolute poise and a kind of feline grace that reminds Skye of a lion. Even when she settles herself on the sofa, every muscle in her body is tense, and poised to spring.

     After a few quiet words with Coulson, she turns to Skye with a smile that is warm and welcoming. “You must be Skye,” she says.

     Wryly, Skye glances down at her bump. “What clued you in?”

     Romanoff’s mouth twitches again, and she gives Coulson a look.

     He laughs, and says, “Romanoff is going to be the one protecting you, Skye. We’ve worked it all out.”

     Skye looks at this woman who is shorter even than her – she probably only comes up to Ward’s shoulders – and she feels absolutely safe. She hasn’t seen Romanoff in action yet and already she believes that no one can beat this woman. It’s the air of confidence that she exudes, how she holds her body and the way her eyes dart everywhere, constantly aware of the room and everything within it.

     Skye leans forward and holds out her hand. “Thanks,” she says.

     Romanoff takes it. “Coulson called in a favour,” she explains. “He’s the one you need to thank.”

     But Skye looks at Coulson and she knows there’s more to it than that. She smiles, though, and sits back, and later when Romanoff is talking to May she mouths, ‘You’re the best, AC,’ across the room.

     Coulson shrugs modestly and sits back with a satisfied look on his face.


	7. 27 Weeks

The plan, Coulson explains, is to put Romanoff and Skye on the ground, where they will be less easily tracked.

     “After all,” Romanoff backs him up, “this plane isn’t exactly _stealthy_.”

     But to throw Hydra off the scent, they will be taking the scenic route to their final location. As the plane travels east across Canada, the team pauses at random intervals to throw human-shaped bolsters out of the plane with parachutes.

     “If we’re lucky, they’ll try to track them all,” Coulson says. “It should delay them long enough for you two to go off-grid.”

    After Canada, they travel down the east coast of the United States, and then cross Mexico and head south-west across the Pacific Ocean. Flying through the night, most of the team use the chance to sleep.

     Skye tries, she really does, but her eyes just won’t close. Lately, every time she sleeps, she’s had the nightmares. Nothing seems to stop them.

     After more than an hour of lying on her side and breathing heavily in a desperate attempt to trick her body into exhaustion, she gives up. She struggles out of bed, frustrated with the extra weight, and staggers out into the lounge.

     Romanoff is sitting on the lounge, reading quietly under the dim light of a single lamp. She speaks softly, without looking up. “Hello, Skye.”

     Skye decides not to be concerned about this woman’s creepy sixth sense. “Hey,” she says, and flops heavily into a chair opposite.

     Romanoff glances up. “You should get some sleep.”

   “Yeah,” Skye mutters. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

     “Warm milk,” the assassin advises. “That helps sometimes, I’ve found.”

     Skye thinks about asking why Fury’s top agent can’t sleep – but then, she thinks, maybe she doesn’t need to ask. After all, Romanoff has probably done plenty of things in her life that she has nightmares about. She probably hasn’t slept with the enemy and gotten herself knocked up, though. That mistake is Skye’s alone.

     “I’ll try it,” she says. “Thanks.” She levers herself to her feet and wanders into the kitchen, where she pours the milk and heats it in the microwave and wonders if everyone else is asleep. And then she wonders what Ward is doing, and what time it is where he is, and if he’s asleep.

     The microwave beeps, shocking her out of her reverie, which is good. No self-pity, Skye tells herself firmly. Don’t think about Ward. She grabs the hot mug and takes a sip. It’s nice; soothing, so she carries the mug back into her bunk and drains it down before trying to sleep again.

***

Skye wakes up when the cargo hold alarm goes off. She squints at the ceiling of her bunk, and then she gets up, gets dressed, and goes to see where they’re throwing the latest fake parachutist.

     It’s New Zealand, in the middle of the south island, which means they’re nearly at the end of their journey.

     “Only a couple of hours left,” Jemma says with a smile when she sees Skye at the top of the stairs. “Ready for the last ultrasound?”

     “I guess,” Skye sighs. She walks down the stairs and into the lab.

     While she’s lying on the bench with her shirt pulled up awkwardly and Jemma warns her, “It’s cold,” Skye really starts to feel scared for the first time. How the hell is she going to cope without her team?

     “Have I said thank you?” she asks her friend. “Because thank you, Jem, really. You’re my favourite person.”

     “I know,” Jemma smiles, in mock arrogance. “I’m amazing.” Dropping the act, she gives Skye a serious look. “You will be okay, though, won’t you? Promise me.”

    “I can’t promise that,” Skye laughs.

     “Just promise anyway.”

     “Fine. I promise I’ll be okay.” Jemma places the wand on Skye’s stomach, and Skye adds, “It’s not for long, anyway. We’ll be meeting you guys in ten weeks.”

     “Ten weeks is _ages,”_ Jemma mutters.

     “Now you sound like me.”

     The scientist moves the wand and then pulls it away. “Everything’s fine, and we don’t have time for more. You need to pack.”

     Skye gets up off the table and wipes her belly off before pulling her shirt down. She says, “Come and help me?”

     “Of course,” Jemma says instantly. “Your sleeping-bag-stuffing skills are simply _not_ up to par.”

***

Much to Skye’s surprise, it actually takes two hours for her to finish packing. The time is well spent, though, and she and Jemma manage to squeeze a brief pillow fight somewhere in the middle. Fitz comes to join them, too, and he sits on Skye’s bed and makes unhelpful remarks.

     When it’s finally time to leave, Skye stands and looks around her bunk with a sigh. Jemma snatches up her hula doll. “Wait! Don’t you need this?”

     “No need. I’m coming back,” Skye says firmly, and it’s as much for her benefit as theirs. “I’m coming back.”

     They walk down to the cargo hold together, and Skye’s stomach aches with misery. She can’t explain the love she feels for these people, but they’re her family. It’s not something she can honestly say she’s felt before, and it’s not something she expected when she agreed to join the team. It just sort of… happened.

     May is the first to say goodbye, which doesn’t surprise Skye. That’s who May is, and she’s accepted it. The woman bids her luck first, and then briefly touches her arm. Right before she moves away, she reaches forward and tucks a piece of hair behind Skye’s ear. “Be careful,” she says.

     “I will,” Skye nods.

     Fitz is next, and he grabs Skye hard in a hug, then pulls back and says, “Your stomach is flipping _enormous_.”

     Immediately, Jemma says, “ _Fitz_ , it’s not her _stomach_ that’s oversized, it’s her _uterus_ ,” and Skye almost cries from the familiarity of it all.

     “Guys,” she says. “Hug me goodbye, don’t argue, and don’t discuss my anatomy in detail until I’m off the bus. Okay?”

     “I’ll miss you,” Fitz mumbles, and then he turns and scurries back to the lab, flushing pale red in embarrassment.

     Jemma lunges forward and folds Skye into her embrace. “Please look after yourself,” she whispers in Skye’s ear.

     “I miss you already,” Skye returns. “You look after _your_ self.”

     Jemma steps back and it’s Trip’s turn. He grins, that broad, wide grin that seems to welcome everyone around him into the joke, and says, “I expect when you come back you’ll have picked up all of Romanoff’s skills.”

     “You know it,” Skye says. She winks at him; friendly, not flirty.

     “You’re an impressive person, Skye,” Trip says. “Come back soon.” He nods, briskly, like he’s said everything that needed to be said, and then he moves off to the side of the cargo bay.

     Finally, Coulson approaches Skye. “This is sad,” he notes. “Your farewell line-up.”

     She hugs him, just in case he didn’t take the initiative to move first. “Watch out for my team, AC.”

     “Come home to us,” he says. “Make it happen.”

     Skye nods. “I’ll do my best. Sir.”

     After that, there’s very little left to say. Some last minute advice is imparted from Coulson to Romanoff, and from Romanoff to May, and then they strap their parachutes on. Romanoff jumps first, providing Skye with an example.

     “I am absolutely positive that parachuting while pregnant is not safe,” Jemma says helpfully. “I feel I should point this out now.”

     Skye shrugs. “Too late!” she yells, and then she follows Romanoff over the edge of the ramp.

***

Skye yanks the parachute cord when Romanoff does, which means that she winds up floating slightly higher than the assassin as they drift towards a field of pale green. It’s when she’s close enough to see the purple flowers and the cows in the field that she realises she has no idea how to land.

     “Help,” she mutters.

     “Bend your knees!” Romanoff yells up at her, and Skye rolls her eyes, because yeah, _that’s_ helpful advice.

     She does bend her knees, when she eventually touches down. And immediately stumbles forward because her parachute is still holding her up, and then steps in a cowpat and sits down, hard. Compared to the incredibly graceful landing of her companion, Skye probably looks like a walrus. She feels like a walrus. Or an elephant seal, with a stupid nose. Ugh.

     “Are you okay?” Romanoff asks. Her face is carefully expressionless, but Skye thinks she’s concerned.

     “Fine,” she says. “But there’s poo on my boots. Gross.”

     “Your boots will live,” Romanoff says, and there’s that twitch in her mouth again. Skye’s starting to think that this is as close as Romanoff gets to smiling. It looks like a smile – or, rather, it looks like an aborted smile. Like her face started to smile and her brain said ‘nope, nope, no smiling here’.

     “So,” Skye begins. “Australia. Where do we start?”

     Romanoff glances around, probably scenting the air for danger or something – Skye doesn’t know how high-level agents do stuff, okay – and then points. “We’ll head west,” she explains. “So, follow the setting sun.”

     Skye nods. “Seems legit,” she agrees. “Do we take the parachutes?”

     Romanoff shakes her head, and unbuckles Skye’s vest for her. “Leave them here. That way, from the air, they look exactly the same as the bolsters we dropped. No sign that anyone touched them.”

     The shorter woman moves to grab the bags which they brought with them, shouldering both. Skye says, “Hey, I can carry my own bag.”

     “It’s my job to protect you,” Romanoff points out. “I don’t think letting you get a hernia from lifting a heavy bag counts as protecting.”

     “I have a lot of upper body strength,” Skye retorts.

     Romanoff shrugs and starts to walk away. Skye follows her after a minute – but only because she doesn’t like the way some of those cows are eyeing her. It’s creepy.


	8. 28 Weeks

The first night, they spend sleeping under the stars – or, rather, under a crowd of gum trees, with drooping branches and grey-green leaves that brush Skye’s face in the night and cause her to wake up breathlessly. She dreams more than once, too, although she doesn’t remember it in the morning.

     They find a town the next day, and Romanoff leads Skye to a motel on the outskirts. “Stay out here,” she instructs, “and let me do the talking. Try not to draw attention to yourself.”

     “Got it,” Skye mumbles. She understands that Natasha Romanoff is the best at what she does, but really, would it kill the woman to give orders with a ‘please’ tagged on?

     The instant she thinks it, Skye regrets it. Romanoff is here, putting her own life in danger, to _help Skye_. There is no other reason for it. Whether or not she’s doing Coulson some kind of favour, she’s protecting Skye at the cost of her own safety.

     Sighing heavily, and wishing that she could be a little bit _less_ empathic sometimes, Skye leans unobtrusively by the side of the motel until Romanoff emerges with a room key.

     “It’s a single room,” she tells Skye. “I’ve only checked myself in – so if anyone asks, you were never here. Okay?”

   “Okay,” Skye says. She trails after Romanoff as they head into their room. It’s large, for a cheap motel, and the bed has fluffy pillows which Skye instantly claims as her own. The fact that there’s only one bed doesn’t seem to bother Romanoff.

     There’s a television, as well, which the assassin turns on straight away. She seizes the chance to catch up on the local news, but Skye doesn’t see anything of interest. The weather is dropping – at least, according to the Australian news anchors. It’s the end of February, which makes it almost the end of Australian summer. Even if Skye understood Celsius, though, she wouldn’t have called this kind of weather _cold_.

***

Romanoff goes shopping for supplies, leaving Skye in the motel room. At first, she just lounges on the bed, props up her aching feet (pregnancy problems) and thoroughly enjoys the fluffy pillows.

     At some point, she falls asleep – which wouldn’t have been a problem if she hadn’t woken to a knock on the door and someone calling; “Room service!”

     Sleepily, Skye says, “No.” Then she says, “Help,” and finally she wakes up enough to realise that she’s not supposed to be in this room. She has no idea if the cleaning staff have seen Romanoff checking in, or leaving the room – but either way, Skye needs to be out of sight, like, yesterday.

     Someone is fumbling with a key in the lock. Cursing her appalling luck, Skye slides off the bed heavily and turns her head left and right. Where the hell is a pregnant woman supposed to hide in a two-room motel suite?

     The answer, obviously, is under the bed. She goes down on hands and knees and pushes her way under, grateful for the long bedspread that hangs down to the floor.

     At some point, while she lies there, curled into a ball on her side and trying not to breathe in the dust, she realises just how much more memorable she is going to be if she gets caught. Instead of ‘the random pregnant woman in room 43’, she’s going to become ‘the weirdo pregnant woman who I found hiding under the bed in room 43’ and chances are whoever is cleaning this room is going to tell people. Lots of people.

     Romanoff is going to _kill_ me, Skye thinks furiously. Things can’t possibly get worse than this.

     The sound of a vacuum cleaner fills the room and… really? Skye should know better than to jinx herself. _Damn_. The nozzle pokes underneath the bed, and what follows is a scene that Skye really wishes is being filmed, because she cannot imagine how hilarious she looks, pregnant and huge, trying to dodge a vacuum cleaner in the cramped space beneath a motel bed. This is the most ridiculous scenario she’s ever been in – and she’s had sex in a janitor’s closet while soldiers patrolled outside.

     It’s probably only three minutes of ducking and weaving, and then the cleaner, who is obviously trying to skimp on their job, backs out of the room. Skye heaves an exhausted sigh of relief, and decides that really, it’s not worth the trouble to crawl back out from under the bed. She’s too tired to move right now anyway.

***

She wakes up and Romanoff claps a hand over her mouth. “Ssh,” she hisses.

     Skye freezes. She has a whole host of questions she’d like to ask – why are we both under the bed? Why do I have to be quiet? – but she’s being very effectively hushed by her new bodyguard.

     There’s heavy breathing in the room. Someone is panting, and lumbering around, growly and gruff. An overwhelming smell of alcohol permeates Skye’s nostrils, and she thanks every deity in the world that she’s past the nausea part of pregnancy. Because seriously, throwing up on Black Widow’s hand while hiding under a motel bed is never going to make her top ten list of things to do. Ever.

     “He’s drunk,” Romanoff puffs, almost soundlessly into Skye’s ear. “That makes him unpredictable.”

     Skye takes a second to marvel at how, even now, Romanoff can turn this into a teaching opportunity. This woman would make an amazing SO.

     She squirms away from Romanoff’s hand and whispers, “Why is he here?”

     Skye feels, rather than sees, the shrug. “Wrong room,” Romanoff responds quietly. “Stay here. Don’t make a sound.”

     Moving fluidly, swiftly, she slides out from under the bed and stands up fast.

     “Whoa,” the guy mumbles. He sounds American, which Skye doesn’t realise until afterwards. “Where’d you come from, sweetcheeks?” He has one of those drawling Southern accents that make you think of alligators and swamps and things.

     “Hey, baby,” Romanoff responds easily. Her voice has changed; become higher-pitched and sharper. “Come over here.” Skye can almost hear the smile in the woman’s voice.

     There are lumbering footsteps, and then the guy starts to say something. Skye doesn’t understand his words, though, because there’s a thud and he falls. Romanoff pulls up the bedspread. “Skye,” she says.

     “Are you okay?” Skye asks. She shunts herself out from under the bed and sits up. There’s an unconscious redneck on the floor of the hotel. “What the hell happened?”

     “He came in right after I did,” Romanoff explained. “The door didn’t latch closed.” She purses her mouth, as if tasting something sour. “It was my fault. I couldn’t tell who he was, at first, so I got down under the bed with you to keep you quiet.”

     “You said he… got the wrong room?” Skye asks.

     “Something like that,” Romanoff agrees. Her eyes are dark. “I’ve got dinner, so let’s eat, then I’ll drag this guy back to his own room, and then you can sleep in an actual bed instead of under it.”

     “Oh, yeah, about that,” Skye chuckles, stretching out her aching back. “It’s a funny story.”


	9. 30 Weeks

It’s nearly three weeks after the incident in that first motel when Skye finally plucks up the courage to ask.

     It was Romanoff’s voice, really, that clued her in; tipped her off. The way it had changed, become more appealing to the specific kind of man who’d been in their motel room.

     She takes a deep breath and says, “Romanoff?”

     The assassin turns and smiles at her. Over the past twenty days, they’ve experienced a lot together – and honestly, Skye is starting to like this woman. She’s starting to like her a lot.

     “What is it?”

     “Have you, uh, ever… had sex with someone for a mission?” She blurts the last part out in a hurry, but tries not to let any embarrassment show on her face (or on her red ears).

     Romanoff tips her head to one side. “Yes,” she says honestly. “More than once.”

     Skye swallows hard. “I’m – I’m sorry.”

     “Don’t be,” Romanoff tells her. “By the time I reached SHIELD, I was used to it. I started young.” She’s looking at Skye, but her eyes are staring past Skye.

     “How young?”

     Romanoff laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “Sweetheart,” she says. “You don’t want to know.”

     “I’m sorry,” Skye whispers again.

     Abruptly, Romanoff focusses her eyes. “What happened with Ward wasn’t your fault, you know,” she says gently. “There was no way you could have seen who he really was.”

     “I should have known,” Skye says furiously, and then, to her dismay, tears begin to slide down her face. She hadn’t meant this conversation to be about her, she really hadn’t!

     “You couldn’t have known,” Romanoff repeats. “Even Coulson didn’t know.”

     “Coulson didn’t _screw_ him,” she says bitterly.

     “Well,” Romanoff says, and that semi-smile quirks up the corners of her lips, “you don’t know _that_ for sure.”

***

They arrive at a former SHIELD safe house in the early afternoon. It’s a beautiful place, all sunlight grass and long shadows. There are fruit trees in the backyard, which Skye plunders gleefully.

     Inside the house, Romanoff says, “You need to build up your stomach muscles.”

     Skye’s mouth is purple with mulberry juice. “Um, why?” she asks.

     “Because you got shot in the gut, and now you’re pregnant. If you don’t start building them up now, you’re going to have a lot of problems after the baby is born.”

     “Hey,” Skye says, affronted. “I have abs. I have washboard abs!” She glances down, and amends her statement. “Well, I _used_ to have washboard abs.”

     “I was shot in the stomach once,” Romanoff says cheerily. “By Bucky Barnes.”

     Skye chokes on her mulberry. “Well that’s a story for the grandchildren.”

     “That’s not even my best story,” the assassin confides. “Seriously, though, you need to do exercises.”

     “Sit-ups,” Skye suggests. “Are they safe for pregnant people?”

     “Probably not,” Romanoff says slowly. “Neither is parachuting, though.” She frowns, thinking, and then her face clears. “Tell you what, I’ll phone a friend.”

     “Jemma!” Skye suggests.

     Romanoff shakes her head, red curls bouncing from shoulder to shoulder. “No,” she says. “No contact with your team. Remember?”

     “Seven weeks left,” Skye grumbles.

     “I’m calling.”

     Romanoff puts the phone on speaker, which is how Skye meets a bunch of famous people. First there’s Maria Hill, who yelps; “ _I don’t know anything about pregnant people!_ ” down the phone in abject terror and hangs up.

     “In hindsight,” Romanoff muses, “that wasn’t my best idea. She has a bit of a baby-phobia.”

     Then there’s Pepper Potts, and Skye spends the whole time during that phone call hissing, “It’s Iron Man’s _girlfriend_ ,” across the room and fighting the urge to yell out personal questions.

     Pepper’s advice is along the lines of ‘let me Google that for you’, and the not-entirely-unexpected result she comes up with is that sit-ups are _not_ safe for pregnancy. But she doesn’t know any exercises that are.

     They wait until midday on Saturday for the next phone call, because Romanoff needs to time this perfectly (or so she claims). She dials the number and a man with a pleasant voice picks up. When Romanoff greets him with, “Hi, Cap,” Skye absolutely flips out. She hops around the room for a while, pointing desperately at the phone and making obscure Captain America references.

     Eventually, Romanoff tells the guy on the other end to hold on. She looks up at Skye and says, “What on Earth are you doing?”

     By this time, Skye has somewhat recovered – if not her composure, then certainly her self-respect. She says with dignity, “I’m familiarising myself with the art of interpretive dance.”

     “Right,” Romanoff says. “Stop.” She then instructs Captain America (goddamn _Captain America_ ) to pass the phone on to ‘Sharon’. When he tries to protest, Romanoff makes her voice firm. “I know that she’s sitting next to you,” she says wryly. “Just hand it over, Steve.”

     Sharon, apparently, used to moonlight as a nurse. Or a stripper. Skye isn’t really sure what vibe she’s getting from this conversation, but the woman recommends a number of activities and then joins Romanoff in mocking Captain America for his ‘old-fashioned’ idea of being grossed out by pregnancy (to which he protests that he’s not _grossed out_ , he’s just being _respectful_ by not listening to the conversation).

     Skye’s going to be honest… she doesn’t blame Cap one bit. And she _still_ hasn’t even _thought_ about the birth part. _Ugh._

     They’re planning to stay at this house for a little while, so once they have the exercises planned out, Romanoff gets this scary gleam in her eye and Skye knows that there will be a very strict routine planned for the next few days.

***

There is a hole in the knee of Ward’s last remaining pair of black tactical pants, and every time he puts them on he sticks his foot through it. It’s not the sort of thing that would usually be driving him crazy – and yet it _is_. Every time it happens he just about bursts with fury.

     Obviously, there are two solutions here. He can mend the trousers, or he can throw them away. The trouble is, Ward doesn’t really believe he can do either. He doesn’t even know where to _start_ with mending them – and really, can this even be fixed? The hole is pretty damn huge. It’s fraying around the edges and things look bleak and hopeless.

     Throwing the pants away, then. Except Ward doesn’t think he can do that either. These pants have been with him for a long time. They mean a lot to him. He isn’t ready to let them go.

     Ward can’t believe that he’s getting so worked up over a pair of _trousers_. He must be losing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I dashed off that last paragraph ridiculously late last night, while lying in my bed and after telling myself that I had FINISHED writing for the day (which was obviously untrue). It was spurred after an incident where I stuck my foot (again) through the hole in my pyjama trousers. Unlike Ward, you'll be pleased to know I'm not conflicted. I'm keeping the trousers, because I like my clothes to have character.
> 
> Reading that last paragraph back, I'm not entirely sure it sends the message I really wanted it to send... but I also can't bear to change it. So you'll just have to work hard. :D If you are VERY confused, then maybe mention it in a comment.


	10. 32 Weeks

Tasmania is the next step in their journey. Romanoff has a contact there, she explains, and he’s willing to lend her his plane so that she can fly them to New Zealand. They’re planning to meet Coulson and co somewhere in the north of the South Island.

     The trouble is actually getting to Tasmania. The island state is separated from Australia by a massive gulf of ocean – the Bass Strait. From Victoria, the state where Skye and Romanoff are now, they could probably catch a ferry… but the assassin has vetoed that plan.

     “It’s too dangerous,” Romanoff tells Skye as they pack up their gear. She yanks the straps tight on the sleeping bag. “Any number of people could see you.”

     “So what?” Skye exclaims. “The chances of Hydra being on a ferry in the south of Australia are…”

     “High,” Romanoff finishes grimly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Hydra knew where we were. They have eyes and ears everywhere, Skye.” She stands up and stretches her hands over her head, then says, “We’re swimming.”

     Skye stares at Romanoff. “Are you freaking serious,” she says in a low, dull voice.

     The assassin lifts her chin. “We’ll leave tonight.”

***

In the night, Ward has a dream.

     It starts off average, for him. He’s standing above the well and he’s staring at his brother. It’s not an unusual dream. Below him, the little boy is struggling. He’s crying out, “Grant, Grant!” and Ward isn’t moving.

     Beside him, Maynard says, “Not yet, Grant.”

     Ward isn’t a child, in this dream. He’s the same size as he is now, and he towers over both Maynard and the edge of the well. He wants to move; he wants to slap his brother silly, to throw down the rope, to climb down the well and haul the child out. He opens his mouth to yell, say something comforting… and no words come out. They are stuck in his throat. His arms will not move from his sides, his feet will not budge.

     Abruptly, things change. The face of the boy in the well changes. His eyes are bigger, and darker. His hair is longer, wet and plastered to his face. He cries, “Daddy!” instead.

     Ward’s chest is burning. He lunges for the rope and, beside him, Garrett says, “Not yet, Grant.”

     He spins around. He says, clearly, “That’s my son.”

     Garrett shrugs. There’s an echo of Maynard’s voice in his as he repeats the words. “Not yet, Grant.”

     Ward wakes up in a cold sweat and realises what he’s willing to sacrifice. _Everything_. Anything, everything, whatever it takes. He will do it all for this child.

     Rising from his bed, he dresses quickly and goes to seek out Garrett. The older man is standing in the conference room, leaning over a satellite map on the table. For some reason, the map is centred over Australia.

     “Sir,” Ward says. “I’m requesting permission to go on a solo mission.”

     Intrigued, Garrett looks up at him. “Where are you planning to go, son?”

     Ward tells him, “I’m going to find Skye. I’m going to bring her back – no matter what it takes.”

     A slow, predatory smile spreads across Garrett’s face. “Fantastic,” he says genially. He taps the map and adds, “I might just have an idea about where you can find her.”

***

“I think you have a death wish,” Skye tells her bodyguard.

     Without preamble, Romanoff says, “Shut up.” She’s tying their bags into the light kayak which Skye will be riding in across the strait.

     “It’s two hundred and forty kilometres across,” Skye says, looking at her phone. “That’s, like, a hundred and fifty miles.”

     “Get off the internet,” Romanoff snaps. “They can use it to find you.”

     Skye snorts. “ _My_ phone? Yeah, right.” She switches the phone off and tucks it into the waterproofed pocket of her backpack anyway.

     It’s getting darker – and colder. It’s late March now, and the last vestiges of summer are definitely fading. Together, Skye and Romanoff push the kayak into the edges of the water. Waves splash against it, rocking the boat.

     “Here,” Romanoff says, holding out her hand. “I’ll help you in.”

     “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Skye says. “I know you feel some… need to help Coulson, but this is a step further. This is risking your life.”

     The assassin tightens her lips and says nothing. She takes Skye’s hand and holds her steady while she steps into the rocking boat and sits down.

     “Romanoff,” Skye says. “Natasha.”

     It’s the use of her first name that makes the woman look up. She licks her lips and says, huskily, “That’s the first time you’ve called me Natasha.” She bends down and pulls off her boots.

     “Maybe I should have done it sooner,” Skye says. “I think of you as a person, you know, not just an agent.”

     “Then you’re the only one of us who thinks that way,” Natasha says frankly. She grabs the hem of her hooded jumper and lifts it over her head, leaving her in just a tank top. Skye can see goosebumps rising on the woman’s arms as she unbuttons her jeans and slides them off.

     “Hold these,” she says, passing her clothes and shoes to Skye. “Keep them dry.”

     Skye stuffs the clothes into a plastic bag and sticks them in her backpack, along with the boots. Natasha stands beside the kayak and shivers, wearing nothing but a black cotton tank top, a bra and a pair of underpants. She displays no modesty or shame about the expanse of skin she is showing – it’s as if she’s unaware of her own body, although Skye knows _that’s_ not true. Romanoff moves with too much control to ever be unaware of herself.

     “Are you ready?” Skye asks.

     “Absolutely,” Natasha replies. “Stay in the boat, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

     Skye hefts her oar. “I can paddle,” she says.

     “Just don’t clobber me with it,” the other woman says, twitching her mouth into that aborted smile. “Don’t overexert yourself either, Skye. This is all for nothing if you get sick and die.”

     “Thanks,” Skye says wryly, and then Natasha pushes the kayak into the water and plunges in after it with barely a hesitation.

     It’s slow going, at first, out of the bay. The waves are high, and honestly Skye hasn’t really done much (or any) ocean kayaking. She’s unsteady with her balance and is barely able to use the oars at all. Really it’s only Natasha, tied to the kayak with a rope and swimming smoothly ahead of it, who helps Skye get out into the open ocean.

     She does understand, now, why Romanoff chose to do it this way. The small, single-person kayak is much less noticeable, and cuts through the dark waves swiftly and silently. It would have been harder for Romanoff to tow her from another craft.

     Still, Skye does worry. Natasha isn’t superhuman, after all, and she isn’t even wearing a wetsuit. Skye's pretty sure they're going to drown somewhere in the middle of this big, freaking ocean. On the plus side, at least Ward will never find her on the bottom of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, isn't that cliffhangery? :D 
> 
> In case people were confused, I feel the need to clarify that the trousers Ward was so distressed about last chapter were a metaphor for both Garrett and Skye.


	11. 33 Weeks

Ward can’t call from the jet. It’s frustrating, but it’s a safety precaution that he’s going to have to take. If he calls from the jet, then everyone will know about it – and he needs this call to be private.

     It takes a frustratingly long time for the jet to land. Ward can’t bring himself to try and sleep on the ride. He’s scared to dream again.

     He makes the call when he lands.

     Coulson picks up on the second ring. “Who is this?” he says coldly.

     “Ward,” the man answers. He clenches his fists. “Hear me out.”

     “No,” Coulson says. There’s a click as the line disconnects.

     So Ward dials again. And again. And again.

     On the fourth attempt, Coulson picks up again. He says, “Ward, I will block your number.”

     “It’s about Skye.”

     There’s silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Coulson exhales slowly and says, “Tell me.”

     “Hydra has a lock on her whereabouts,” Ward says first. “She’s in Victoria, in Australia. But I assume you already knew that.” Coulson doesn’t speak. “Right. Well. Anyway.” Ward takes a deep breath. “Look, what I’m about to ask is… presumptuous, to say the least. But I’ve made a decision, Coulson. I’m willing to do anything to be with that kid. Anything.”

     “It’s too late for that,” Coulson tells him. “There are no take-backs.”

     “I know you don’t trust me,” Ward says.

     “You got that right.”

     “I know you’ll never trust me.” Ward sits down heavily on a bench. Around him it’s all grass and trees and sky. _Skye_. He reminds himself that he’s doing this for her. “Regardless of trust, Coulson, I’m a danger to you. So come and find me.”

     He doesn’t disconnect the call. He moves the phone away from his ear and he places it on the bench beside him and waits.

     It doesn’t take the team very long to track him – but, then, he didn’t think it would.

***

For the first three hours, Natasha swims nonstop. Skye isn’t even sure if she breathes. This woman might be a fish. It probably helps that Skye has been paddling, too, so Romanoff hasn’t been pulling the entire weight of the kayak – although Skye will admit that she’s taken more than one break in the past three hours.

     Eventually, Natasha swims off to the side, out of the path of the kayak, and catches hold of the edge as it sails past her. Her breathing is even as she asks Skye for water, which Skye provides. “Give me a bite of a sandwich, too,” the assassin recommends. “Not too much. I’ll have to take it in pieces.”

     Skye hands over a turkey sandwich and Natasha pulls off a chunk and hands it back. “Eat some yourself,” she instructs Skye. “And keep your hands warm.”

     Then they are moving again, more slowly for a little while until Natasha gets back into her stride.

     The next water break is two hours later. This time, Natasha refuses food. “I feel sick,” she admits.

     Skye falls asleep after that. She didn’t mean to, and she jerks awake in shock to see that another three hours have passed. For a second, she can’t see Natasha’s head in front of the boat and she scrambles to her knees, leans forward and _screams_ for her.

     Romanoff emerges from the water and shakes the water from her hair. “Be quiet,” she hisses to Skye.

     “I’m sorry,” Skye breathes. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

     “Water,” Natasha says. She holds out her hand for the bottle and Skye fumbles to grab it. Her fingers are frozen.

     An hour and a half later, at 4:30 AM, Romanoff hauls herself over the front of the kayak, leaning on it and shivering violently in the air. She retches, then vomits over the edge of the boat.

     “Natasha,” Skye whimpers.

     The woman looks over at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry,” she says, and then turns away to vomit again. “It’s the sea water,” she admits moments later. “I’ve swallowed too much of it.”

     Skye says, “Warm up.” She throws a blanket forwards and Natasha wraps it around her shoulders and tugs her knees up, balancing her body curled up on the front of the boat. For a few short minutes, while the other woman eats, drinks and rests, Skye propels both of them forward with the kayak oars.

     Natasha doesn’t stay on the boat long, though. She slips off and says, “We need to move faster. The sun is rising.”

     “Please be careful,” Skye says.

     Romanoff doesn’t answer her. She just starts swimming.

     Skye sleeps again – a cat-nap just before dawn. When Romanoff comes for more water at 7 AM, Skye realises they’ve been travelling for twelve solid hours. How the hell is Natasha doing this?

     “How much further?” the woman asks.

     Skye checks the GPS in her lap. The route from Apollo Bay to King Island is highlighted in green. “Twenty-five kilometres, give or take.”

     Romanoff nods. “I can do that,” she says firmly. Her lips are turning blue.

     “You’re going to die of hypothermia,” Skye tells her.

     The woman shakes her head. “Cold is in the mind,” she recites. “Pain is in the mind.”

     Not for the first time, Skye wonders exactly who – or _what_ – the Black Widow was trained to be.

     As the sun is rising, Romanoff hauls herself out of the water and swears loudly.

     “What?”

     Natasha glances over at her. “We’ve got a shark,” she says, pointing.

     Feeling as if she’s in a dream – or maybe a nightmare – Skye turns her head and sees it. _Holy…_ there are no words graphic enough to describe the terror she is feeling at this moment. She might pee her pants. Not that it would make much difference, given that she’s been sitting in this kayak for thirteen hours. No one ever said being a super spy would be glamorous. (Well, actually, they did. They lied.)

     Skye says, “Please tell me you’re highly trained in the art of shark punching.”

   “No,” Romanoff admits. “I’ve only encountered sharks once before.”

     “And?!”

     “And that was a cage of sharks that I was lowering a man into.” She sees Skye’s stricken face and shrugs. “Come on, Skye, you know who I am.”

     Skye does know who she is. She also knows who Romanoff _isn’t_ – and Romanoff isn’t someone who scares her. Romanoff is someone she trusts, implicitly.

     In the back of her mind, a small voice reminds her that she trusted Ward.

     Maybe, Skye tells herself, that’s the difference. Ward manipulated her into trusting him. He lied and he cheated. Natasha, on the other hand, has never represented herself as anything other than what she is. She doesn’t try to hide the bad parts of her life from Skye; which is why Skye admires the good parts so much.

     “What are we going to do?” she asks now.

     “Paddle,” Romanoff says, “and hope it goes away.”

    “What if it eats us?”

     Shrugging, the woman suggests, “I suppose I could shoot it.”

     “No! A lot of sharks are endangered. This could be a protected species.”

     Natasha gives Skye a clear _seriously?_ look, but she shrugs and sighs. “Then we paddle. Until it tries to eat us. And then I’ll shoot it.”

     As it turned out, there is no need to shoot the shark. It follows them placidly for about thirty minutes (although Skye doesn’t think that anything with that many teeth should be described as _placid_ ) and then it just peels off and swims away.

     “It’s probably lurking in wait nearby,” Skye says. “It wants to eat you.”

     “We haven’t been eaten all night,” Romanoff says confidently as she slides back into the water. “It’s 8:30 in the morning and the light is really good. We’re probably only fifteen kilometres from the shore…”

     “Seventeen,” Skye corrects her, glancing at the GPS.

     “…and I expect you to warn me about any more sharks,” the woman finishes, before she slips back into the water.

     The next three hours pass without a hitch. Once, Skye sees a sailboat in the distance. Twice, they encounter a large school of fish and swerve to avoid them, remembering the shark. Natasha stops for water both times before swimming on.

     Skye is asleep when their journey ends. The boat is hauled up on a deserted beach and then Natasha shakes her awake. She says, “Skye. Wake up.”

     Skye opens her eyes. The baby kicks her ribcage, which is a comforting sensation – and then Natasha collapses face-first in the sand in front of her.


	12. 33 Weeks (2)

Skye doesn’t have time to waste.

     She closes her eyes and grinds the heels of her hands against her eyelids, telling herself, _think, think, think_.

     When her eyes open, she sees a surfer out on the waves. Inspiration strikes. Skye turns her face towards the towering hill of sand dunes ahead of her. She tightens her lips and wonders if she has time to change her wet clothes. Probably not.

     What she _does_ pause to do is wrap one of the fuzzy blankets they’d stolen from a hotel firmly around Natasha where the woman lies on the sand. She says, “Don’t move,” like Romanoff can hear her, and then she starts climbing up the hill, hauling herself forward, grabbing tussock after tussock of yellow beach grass.

     The surfer’s car is parked on gravel at the top of the hill. Skye exhales in sharp relief when she sees it. It’s an old model – small, battered – probably without an alarm. She bends down and tugs off her shoe; sticks her hand inside it and _slams_ the shoe into the car window as hard as she possibly can. Once, twice… the window shatters. Skye puts her shoe back on her foot and knocks the glass out of the window frame. She ignores it when shards slice through her hand and the back of her arm. When the window is relatively clear, she reaches in and opens the door. Before… this, she thinks ruefully, touching her belly, she would have just been able to climb in the window.

     Once she’s satisfied that she can access the car, Skye treks down the hill again, slipping and sliding on the sand. She hoists both her bag and Romanoff’s bag from the kayak and starts climbing again. The muscles in her calves and biceps burn. Filled with a furiously stubborn attitude, though, she keeps trekking until she reaches the top. She dumps the bags in the backseat of the car, and then she rifles through them until she finds her spare clothes. _Finally._ Her wet leggings are starting to chafe horribly, filled with salt water and sand.

     Skye strips on the top of the hill, in a deserted car park, next to a car that she is stealing from a surfer. This isn’t even close to the strangest thing she’s done in recent weeks. She tugs on dry jeans and pulls a jacket on, zipping it up snugly. She doesn’t bother with shoes – because now she has to take Romanoff’s dry clothes and head back down the hill.

     The assassin is still lying on the sand where Skye left her, covered by the blanket. Skye heaves, rolling Romanoff onto her back, so that she’s on top of the blanket now, not beneath it. She slaps the woman’s cheek, gently, and says, “Wake up.”

     Natasha’s eyelids flutter, but she barely move. Skye takes the woman’s dry jeans and slides them up her legs. It is harder to dress an unconscious person than she’d thought it would be – she wonders how people in movies manage to do this so often.

     As Skye buttons the jeans, Romanoff starts to shiver. Violently. Skye can’t remember if this is a good sign or a bad sign – but she thinks that colour is slowly coming back to the woman’s cheeks and lips. She leans forward again and hisses, “Natasha,” but achieves nothing.

     Carefully, she peels the soaking wet tank top away from the assassin’s skin. She can’t help her eyes from flicking down – and yes, there is a scar on Natasha’s stomach, similar to her own. It’s not the only scar on this woman’s body, either. Romanoff is far from flawless. Skye doesn’t think it matters as she tugs flopping, unconscious arms through the sleeves of a jumper. Scars add character to a person. They are symbols of sacrifice. No pain, no gain.

     “Come on,” she grunts now, heaving on Natasha’s arms. “I need you to get up. We have to hotwire a car.” She hits Natasha’s face again, harder than before, and pinches her shoulder. “Romanoff. Natasha.”

     It takes almost a minute, and Skye is damn near frantic when the older agent opens her eyes and mumbles, “What?” She’s half-aware, not properly awake, not fully in control of her limbs. Still, it’s enough. Skye hauls the woman to her feet and starts an exhausting combination of dragging and shoving Natasha up the hill. She talks the entire time, trying to focus both of their minds.

     “Don’t fall asleep,” she warns Natasha. “I can’t carry you up this hill.”

     Romanoff stares down at her feet, trudging through the sand. She seems confused, but her limbs are getting stronger. By the time they reach the top of the hill, the woman is almost walking by herself. Skye dumps her ungracefully into the passenger seat of the car and then she bends down by the driver’s side and tugs away the panel beneath the steering wheel. It’s a mess of wires and plugs, but Skye’s done this before more times than she cares to remember. Hotwiring a car is a skill that every street kid needs.

***

“What do you want, Ward?” Coulson asks. He’s pacing. It’s making Ward uncomfortable – although not as uncomfortable as May, behind him, standing perfectly still.

     “That really is all, I swear,” Ward says furiously. He’s explained all of this to Coulson. He’s explained it a hundred times. “Please can I see Skye.”

     “She isn’t here,” May intones flatly.

     “I know you know where she is,” Ward says in frustration. “She is the only reason why I’m here.”

     “You have no right to Skye,” Coulson says. “Do you have any _idea_ how much you’ve hurt her?”

     Ward murmurs, “Yes.”

     May laughs scornfully. “No you don’t,” she says. “Don’t imagine that you can understand her pain, Ward. Don’t try and empathise with her.”

     Ward raises his chin. He says, “I’ve told you what I want to do.”

     “Yes,” Coulson agrees, “and how do we know this won’t hurt Skye further?”

     “Regardless of whether or not it hurts Skye,” Ward sighs, “I can guarantee that this _will_ hurt Hydra’s plans. It will hurt Garrett. And it can only help you.”

     Coulson looks over Ward’s head, at May. They’re communicating without words – and Ward wishes he could read their eyes and know what they are saying. This is his last chance. He wants to beg for it. _Please_.

     “All right,” Coulson says, finally. “But if we’re going to do this for you, Ward, you’re going to earn it. Tell us everything you know about Garrett and Hydra. Tell us now.”

     Ward nods. He takes a deep breath and begins.

***

They’ve been driving for nearly an hour and Natasha is dozing off again. Skye reaches over and shakes her. She says, “Don’t fall asleep.”

     “I’m exhausted,” Romanoff grinds out.

     “You might die.”

     “I’m not going to die.”

     Skye says, “Tell me a story.”

     “What? No.”

     “Tell me your real name.”

     At this, Romanoff gives her a shifty sideways glance. “Natasha Romanoff,” she says.

     Skye snorts. “I know that’s not true. Come on, super spy. Sharing is caring. Let’s have a deep and meaningful conversation wherein we bond over shared stories.”

     “You need liquor for those kind of conversations,” Natasha notes. “Lots of liquor.” She lets her head fall back with a sigh. Eventually, she says, “A man called Barton taught me to shoot.”

     “Hawkeye,” Skye says with relish. “Cool beans.”

     “I thought archery was kind of stupid until I met him,” Romanoff confesses.

     “Are you dating?”

     She laughs, and it sounds like a truthful reaction. “No,” she says. “I'm way too screwed up for relationships.”

     “I don’t think you’re screwed up,” Skye says, lifting her chin. “I think you’re brave.”

     “Thank you,” the woman says, quietly.

     A little later, Skye looks over and sees that Natasha is asleep. She thinks about waking her, but decides better of it. The heating is on full blast and the inside of the little car is snug and warm. She’ll drive until she finds somewhere safe and relatively secluded for them to camp. They’ll spend a night here – maybe two – and then they’ll complete the second leg of their swim, the part that will take them from King Island to Tasmania.


	13. 34 Weeks

As it turns out, the second leg of the swim will have to wait, because Natasha comes down with something that Skye swears is pneumonia.

     Gritting her teeth, her face and neck flushed red, sweat soaking her shirt, Romanoff grinds out, “It’s not pneumonia.”

     “I think it is,” Skye says. She pauses as another wave of coughing racks the assassin’s form. “It’s been a week and you’re just getting worse.”

     “I’m getting better,” Natasha insists. She rolls feverishly from side-to-side in the nest of blankets that Skye has created for her.

     “You have a high fever. You’re delirious,” Skye says. “We’re living outside, which doesn’t help. I think you need to go to a hospital before you cough up a lung.”

     Romanoff shakes her head, tightly. “No. No hospitals. Never… again.”

     Skye rolls her eyes. She throws another blanket across the woman’s body and says, “Okay. It’s your funeral.”

     “I’m not going to die,” Natasha whispers.

     “Just go to sleep.” Skye curves a hand over her stomach. They have three weeks left until they are supposed to be meeting up with the team in New Zealand; and that week will also signify the full-term mark of Skye’s pregnant. Her baby could be born any time afterwards. If they are stranded here for much longer… well, she’s Googled, and there aren’t any birthing facilities on the island. There is a cheese factory, though. So _that’s_ helpful.

***

The days drag by slowly. Natasha gets worse. She stops sweating, but shivers constantly, even though her forehead is hot to the touch. It’s an impossible paradox. She’s always either too hot or too cold, but Skye piles the blankets on regardless. She doesn’t know that much about illness, and she’s never been very good at looking after people, but she knows that it feels worse to let Natasha get cold than to let her overheat.

     Skye is terrified, frankly. She knows people can die of pneumonia. She thinks Romanoff needs antibiotics, or a hospital, or something.

     It doesn’t help that they’re running out of supplies. Skye hasn’t been drinking as much as she probably should, because Natasha needs the water more. They’ve eaten most of their food, as well, in the past week. Skye wants to go shopping – but they are stranded on a tiny island and she has absolutely no doubt that any newcomers will be noticed immediately and watched with an eagle eye. She can’t let anyone see her now. They’ve come too far.

***

Jemma was _not_ expecting the sat phone call. She picks it up and says, “Hello?” and her voice sounds flat and bland, like it can’t decide what emotion to portray.

     When Skye says, “Jemma,” desperately, though, Jemma’s body decides that the emotion it’s looking for is general disbelief and outright shock. She sits down, hard.

     “Skye! What’s going on?”

     “I need advice,” the voice on the other line crackles. “We’re stranded in-” a hiss of interference drowns out the name Skye mentions, “-and Natasha is sick.”

     “Wait,” Jemma says urgently as Coulson walks into the lab. He gives her a puzzled glance. She continues, “Skye, where did you say you were? I couldn’t hear you.”

     Alarm spreads over Coulson’s face. Skye says, “It’s…” and then Coulson storms over to Jemma and snatches the phone away from her, disconnecting it immediately.

     Jemma gapes. She exclaims, “Sir!”

     “Simmons,” Coulson says furiously, “after what Ward told us, you know better than to make contact with Skye.”

     “Sir, she called _me_ ,” Jemma explains, and really, she hasn’t been privy to all of the information that Ward provided. “Are you saying that Hydra is monitoring our phone calls?”

     “Yes,” Coulson snaps. “That is what I’m saying. And now they know exactly where she is.”

***

In the middle of the night, Skye wakes from a nightmare. She tugs her knees to her chest and tries to breathe slowly, to calm the panic in her throat and the fluttering of her heart. The baby does a few slow somersaults inside her and yeah, that helps a little bit.

     In a thick, raspy voice, Natasha says, “Nightmare?”

     “Yes,” Skye admits. “Always the same one.”

     Natasha nods, in a way which makes Skye think that she knows a little something about recurring bad dreams. “Is it true?” she asks.

     “Uh huh.”

     “Those are the worst,” Natasha tells her. Then she says, “We need to get the plane from here.”

     “I don’t think there’s a runway on the island,” Skye points out, “and I have no idea how to get in touch with your plane guy.”

     Romanoff coughs harshly. She turns onto her side and spits out phlegm and then she says, “It’s a seaplane.” She grabs Skye’s hand. “The number is in my phone.”

     Natasha’s phone is a burner cell, and so Skye fishes it out of the bag with one hand, still hanging on to the assassin with the other. There are only two numbers in the phone, and one of them Skye knows connects to the Bus. Process of elimination, then. She dials the second number.

     A man with a thick accent picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

     “Um, hi,” Skye says.

     Immediately, his tone grows wary. “Who is this?”

     “I’m Skye,” she says. “I’m travelling with Romanoff. We’re stuck on King Island and we need your help.”

     Natasha’s ‘plane guy’ hangs up a few minutes later after several reassurances and a promise that he will be there by tomorrow morning. Skye glances down at the sick woman. “He’s coming, Natasha,” she says gently.

   Romanoff sighs and moves her head restlessly from side to side. Functioning on an impulse she can’t quite explain, Skye lifts Natasha’s head and pillows it in her lap. She strokes repetitively over the woman’s hair – from the crown of her head down to her ear, over and over and over again, smoothing, soothing, gentle and careful. Natasha’s skin is warm against Skye’s hand. It should feel intimate, but it’s not. It should feel awkward, but it isn’t. She’s just providing comfort to someone who needs it.

     Maybe, Skye thinks, she could get used to this whole ‘mothering’ thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, right. So I've been meaning to put this in a note for a while now, but I keep forgetting. This fic has had almost double the number of hits of any of my previous fics, which is just AMAZING, so thank you all. It has also had more kudos and comments than any of my previous fics. Wow!! You are all super cool beans, and just the fact that you are leaving kudos, and leaving comments, and showing your appreciation for something that I mostly just write for myself is absolutely fantastic. Give yourself a pat on the back. Or several expensive gifts, whatever floats your respective boats.


	14. 35 Weeks

 

Natasha’s ‘plane guy’ is tall and beefy, with broad shoulders, a barrel-shaped chest, and a thick moustache.

     “Skye,” Romanoff says thickly, “this is Fatos Dem.”

     “Fatos the Bull!” the guy grunts, and he picks Natasha up as if she weighs nothing and tips her over his shoulder. “I am Albanian. Are you Albanian?”

     Skye stares at him. “Um, no,” she says carefully. “Sorry.”

     Fatos shrugs, causing Natasha to rise alarmingly. “It’s ok,” he says comfortingly, as if he genuinely expects Skye to burst into tears at any minute. “Come. The plane is this way.”

     The plane is floating in the narrow bay, and there is a rowboat pulled up to shore. Fatos prepares to throw Natasha into it, but she grabs his shoulder and says something in a quiet voice that seems to remind him she’s not as hardy as usual, because he bends down after that and settles her in carefully. He climbs in himself, wobbling, and then holds out his hand and beckons for Skye. “Come, come.”

     She takes his hand, grateful for the gesture, because honestly she’s not that steady on her feet right now. It’s a squash for all three of them to sit in the boat, especially with Natasha half-lying the way she is, but they manage it and Fatos starts to haul on the double oars, moving them swiftly towards the plane.

***

In the two weeks since Ward has come aboard the Bus again, Jemma hasn’t seen him once.

     “I peeked into the interrogation room,” Fitz had told her on the first day. “He looked unhappy.”

     “Good,” the scientist had said snippily. “I hope he’s suffering.”

     Since that day, though, neither of them had seen a thing. Ward might not exist at all, for all Jemma knows.

     Trip comes into the lab while she’s watching through her second hour of birthing videos. He winces. “Ouch.”

    Jemma spins around, her ponytail flying. “Agent Triplett!” she exclaims. “Hello.”

     He gives her a slightly bemused expression, and says, “You can call me Trip, you know. Everyone else does by now.”

     “Yes,” Jemma agrees. She points to the screen. “I’m, ah, studying.”

     “Yeah, I can see that. Poor Skye.”

     Honestly, Jemma agrees. In fact all of these videos are completely putting her off the idea of ever having children. Ever. She cannot believe that the human species continues to survive with a birth process like this. “It does seem a little… bloody,” she ventures.

     For a minute or two, they’re both sucked into the moving images on the screen again, staring mindlessly. Eventually, Trip says, “I think that’s a head.”

     Jemma tips her head to the side to get a better view. “I think – yes, you’re right. Gosh, that is a hairy baby.”

     “I actually did come down here for a reason,” the man behind her says. Jemma turns around and he’s standing awkwardly, hands behind his back, eyebrows pulled together. “But if you’re busy, I can come back.”

     “No!” Jemma says immediately. She pauses the video as the baby slithers out into the world and tells him, “It’s fine, go ahead.”

     “It’s Ward,” Trip blurts out, and inwardly, Jemma feels the crushing weight of disappointment, because she’s _talked_ about Ward. She’s talked about him so much that he’s starting to feel less real and more fairy-tale to her. She doesn’t want to talk about him ever again.

     “What about Ward?”

     “I think I found him,” Trip says, and then he pauses and frowns. “Wait, hold on. I’ll start at the beginning.”

     “Yes,” Jemma says, “I hear it’s a very good place to start.”

     The older agent puzzles over that one for a second, and then he says, “I was walking-”

     “Right. Okay. Carry on.”

     “-and I thought I saw this light coming from the med pod.”

     “With you so far,” Jemma says, and he gives her a look that makes her think he’s about to tell her to stop interrupting – but he doesn’t.  

     Instead, he says, “Aw screw it,” and then, “you’re going to have to see this for yourself.”

     They move towards the med pod quietly, and Jemma wonders where Fitz is as they pass through the cargo bay. Isn’t he meant to be training?

     “Where’s Fitz?” she asks Trip.

     “He needed a break,” Trip explains. “He was exhausted, and worried about Skye after that sat phone call. I said he could take a couple of days.”

     Jemma likes this man, she thinks, suddenly. She _really_ likes him. It’s the casual, gentle way he has of speaking. It’s the broad grin that he flashes, teeth shining white against the dark skin of his face. It’s his beard. And she _hates_ beards!

     Trip reaches out and grabs her shoulder as they round the corner into the corridor outside the med pod. “Be quiet,” he warns. “Move slowly.”

     “Why?” Jemma asks.

     He shoots her a meaningful look, so she’s quiet. And then they’re at the window of the med pod and suddenly she can’t be quiet, because she wants to _scream_ and _run_ and maybe throw up on her shoes a little bit because what the hell is that?!

     “Be quiet,” Trip whispers again, like he knows what she’s thinking.

     Jemma hisses, “What are they _doing_ to him?”

     “I don’t know,” Trip says quietly. “I was hoping you might have a theory, because I am seriously out of ideas.”

***

There was a brief mishap when they arrived at the seaplane – brief meaning Skye’s tumble into the water, which was certainly brief. And cold. A good wake-up call, really, even if now she can’t feel her toes.

     “Move your legs,” Natasha says. It turns out that the plane only seats two. Fatos is in the pilot’s seat, Skye is in the co-pilot’s seat, and Natasha is spread out across the both of them. Her feet are in Skye’s lap, because Skye’s belly means that is the lap with the least room.

     “Why?” Skye asks.

     “To keep your circulation going,” the woman tells her. “There’s something about pregnant women and planes… god, I can’t remember, I’m dying of snot-poisoning over here. You should be wearing compression socks.”

     “Snot-poisoning is _not_ a cause of death,” Skye says, “and you should blow your nose more often. I despise compression socks.”

     “If I blow my nose we’ll all drown.”

     “You sound like Daffy Duck.”

     “Please,” Fatos interrupts. He’s looking a little bit green. “No more talk of snot. Talk instead of blood.”

     “Blood?” Skye asks. “Isn’t that a little… morbid?”

   “It’s gallows humour,” Romanoff says. “You pick it up in our line of work.”

     “If we must talk of bodily fluids, can we talk about how I really need to pee? Because I really need to pee,” Skye announces.

     Fatos presses a hand to his head and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer.

***

By the time they finally land, the Albanian man seems extremely happy to have Skye off his plane. He shakes her hand vigorously as she gets out, and encourages her to visit Albania. But to warn him before she arrives. At least, that was the general gist of it. Eventually he leaves, his tiny plane circling cheerfully above them, and Skye and Natasha haul their bags into their new home for the next ten days.

     The New Zealand safe-house is shaped like a cone. It’s two rooms, main room and bathroom, and there isn’t a lot of space, so everything is tucked against walls. The slanted ceiling towers over them comfortingly and warm yellow light fills the entire space. It is the most cosy house Skye has ever been in.

     “Why can’t we stay here until the team come and get us?” she asks Romanoff as they unpack their bags. Ten days is too long to be living out of a duffle.

     “Because this isn’t the meeting spot,” Natasha says sternly. She claims that she’s feeling better, but her cheeks are still unnaturally bright.

     “It’s cold,” Skye says. “I’m going to light the fire.”

     The older woman peers at her suspiciously, but she doesn’t say anything. She settles herself down on her bed, props up her feet and leans back with a sigh. “I hope you brought good books,” she tells Skye. “It’s going to be a long week.”

     Skye twists around from her position by the grate. “Are you kidding? I love this place already!” she exclaims. “I never want to leave.”


	15. 36 Weeks

In three days, they have to leave the safe-house and Skye is feeling a curious mix of irrational terror and joy at the thought of seeing her team again. She has missed them – all of them – _so bloody much_. She misses their silly faces and Fitzsimmons’ ridiculous accents and May stomping around at 5 AM like she’s an elephant instead of a ninja. She misses the urgent banging on the bathroom door and cries of ‘Skye, hurry up!’ and she misses people using up all of the hot shower water.

     She misses Ward. The thought strikes her like a blow, and she struggles to turn it away, to ignore it, because the only other option is to make excuses for him, and that hurts her more. She can’t bear to think about him, because all she remembers now are the bad parts. The moments that used to be so treasured and familiar – playing Battleship and training together every day and ribbing him about his emotional constipation – seem as dim and distant to her now as dreams. Faded and half-remembered, floating in a mist of confusion and anger and the constant questioning; was he pretending to enjoy those board games? Was he faking it when he laughed at my jokes? When he smiled at me – when he smiled at Fitzsimmons – was he imagining the day when he’d take SHIELD down and kill us all? It cut her to the core. That really was the worst part about his betrayal – the fact that it betrayed her own memories as well.

     The worst memory of all tries to swim to the surface of her mind. She sees shelves and mops and smells bleach and, with a tremendous effort of will, she wrenches herself back to the present. She is reclining on her bed, with her swollen feet propped up on pillows and her book resting on her belly. She’s been reading the same paragraph over and over again while she was lost in thought. It’s time to move on.

     The fire is crackling in the background, and Natasha is passed out, snoring, because her nose is still a bit stuffed up. Thankfully, the worst of her symptoms have passed. Her fever faded a few days after they arrived in this cone-shaped house, and even though she’s still been coughing a lot at night and keeping both of them awake, she’s a lot better than before.

     A pressing need makes itself obvious to Skye. She grumbles something at the baby who is clearly stealing space that her bladder desperately needs, and then she lumbers off the bed and into the bathroom.

     She closes the door behind her and takes two steps towards the toilet and then she feels it. There’s a ‘pop’ and a sudden release of pressure and then something warm and wet spills down Skye’s legs.

     At first, she thinks she’s wet herself. But no – she still really needs to pee – and then she looks down and there’s clear fluid pooling around the bottom of her jeans. The ache in her lower back that has been building all day suddenly takes on a new meaning for Skye.

     She says, “Crap,” and then she goes to the toilet, because life must go on and she must pee. Immediately. Fricking pregnancy.

     When Skye thinks she’s ready, she tugs off her jeans and wraps a towel around her waist and waddles out into the main room. She says, “Natasha,” and the assassin jerks awake, because she’s back to being a light sleeper now that the brunt of her illness has passed.

     “Skye,” Romanoff says. “Nice towel.”

     “I think I’m in labour,” Skye says bluntly.

     Natasha rubs her knuckles across her eyes. She gets to her feet and says, “Well crap.”

     “That’s what I said.”

     “Okay, all right. Okay. We can do this,” Romanoff says firmly.

     “Nope,” Skye tells her. She waddles over to her bed and sits down. “I think I’m just going to cross my legs very firmly for the next week.” There’s a twinge in her lower belly – it feels like period cramps. It’s been nine months since Skye has had period cramps, and she thinks, now _there’s_ a sensation you never forget. Ouch. This pain is worse than she remembers. She clenches her jaw and squeezes her thighs together and mentally tells the baby _NO_ with every ounce of strength she has.

     Natasha sighs. She says, “I’ll get more towels,” and then she wanders into the bathroom and yelps, “Oh, gross, Skye! You left amniotic fluid all over the bathroom floor!”

***

It’s been two hours and seriously, Skye can’t do this. She swears she can’t.

     Romanoff has been watching her with slitted eyes, and now she says, “Get up. Come on, move, Skye.”

     “I am in _pain_ ,” Skye says furiously. “I cannot _move.”_

     “Yeah, you can,” Natasha says, and she hauls Skye to her feet. “Maybe if you stay upright for a little while, gravity will lend a hand.”

     Skye shrugs, and says, “Well in that case, why don’t I just squat on the floor? And the baby can be born headfirst onto a ratty brown carpet.” She kicks at the carpet, which unbalances her and sends her toppling sideways. Natasha, through some kind of intense assassin reflex, grabs Skye’s shoulders and holds her forcefully upright until she’s ready to stand on her own again.

     “Maybe you should have a bath,” Natasha suggests calmly, as though nothing had just happened. “They talk about baths in hospitals, right?”

     Actually, a bath is sounding really good to Skye right now. She wants calm and peace and heat to drive away the heavy, dull ache in her lower belly. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay. Bath. Let’s do it.”

     Skye walks in small circles while Natasha runs the bath. She vaguely remembers, from that time she went through a pony-stage as a little girl, that you’re supposed to walk horses in circles when they have colic. Maybe the same applies for all agonising pain in the tummy?

     The walking isn’t doing much for the pain, but it seems to be calming her down a little bit. Skye wonders if she should go for a jog – then she has visions of herself tripping and falling on her face and rupturing her uterus (is that a thing?) so… better not.

     “Okay,” Natasha says. “Normally this is the part where I’d leave, but you’re not that steady on your feet.”

     “Nope,” Skye agrees, and then she sighs and struggles to pull off her shirt and drops the towel that she’s been clutching and pulls off her underwear. Natasha is looking away, so Skye laughs and says, “If you’re going to be my midwife, you’re probably going to see it all in a few hours.” Ugh. God. A few _hours_. This is a nightmare.

     “You’re right,” Romanoff sighs. “Isn’t this weird? I’ve stitched up intestines and popped someone’s eye back into its socket once, but I’ve never seen someone give birth.”

     Skye says, “Let this be a lesson to you. A lesson teaching you to _never have sex again_.”

***

She stews in the bathwater until it gets cold and her fingers get pruney, and then she gets out and walks around the main room while Natasha refills the bath so that she can get back in for another hour. The pain is getting worse. Much worse; and the heat helped the first time she tried it, but the second time Skye is just in agony. The pain makes her restless. It makes her want to run around and it makes her want to hug her knees to her chest and just cry.

     It hits its worst peak just after four hours have gone by. Skye is walking and then the wave hits her and it’s just… oh _God_. She sucks in an agonised breath and drops to her knees and presses her hand to her belly and thinks that this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done.

     She says to Romanoff, “I wish I was a man.”

     “I know,” Romanoff agrees.

     “I wish someone would just cut me open and yank this wretched thing out already. Where’s your knife?”

     “I know,” Natasha sighs, and then she says, “I’m not going to cut you open, Skye. Come on. You can do this. This is a natural thing – millions of women have been doing this for millions of years.”

     “How the _hell_ ,” Skye grunts out, and then pauses to gasp through another contraction before continuing, “has the human race even _survived_ this bloody torture?”

     “I’m going to time your contractions,” Romanoff says. “You have to tell me as soon as they start.”

     “I can squeeze your hand,” Skye pants. “Like in the movies. I may break it.”

     “Do not break my hand.”

***

The contractions are getting closer together. Skye had expected this time to be the worst – pain without the brief relief and time to recover in-between – but actually she finds that she prefers it. She’s no longer constantly anticipating the contractions. Now she just accepts them as they come, waits for them to leave and then prepares for the next one.

     It’s been five hours of this nonsense. Romanoff has been encouraging her to walk, round and round the room. Skye’s practically worn a path in the carpet. She stares down at her feet and forces them to carry her forward, one plodding painful step at a time. She’s made very little progress, because usually she squats down or leans against one of the beds every time a contraction comes.

     It happens with the next contraction. Skye feels something like a muscle spasm travel her abdomen, and then she feels an urge to push. Like, really, really push.

     “Natasha,” she says, and the woman glances up, wary. “I think I have to lie down.”

     The assassin helps Skye get settled on the bed. They ultimately opt for a reclining position, rather than just lying flat, because Romanoff is sure that leaning back against the wall is better for Skye. “You seem more curled up this way,” she explains. “I think it will help.”

     It feels all right to Skye, so she doesn’t protest. Instead she draws her knees up to her chest and says, “This is going to be horrendously embarrassing, isn’t it?”

     “Try not to think about it. Besides,” Romanoff says wryly, “this definitely isn’t the first vagina I’ve ever seen.”

     “Oh how comforting,” Skye gasps out. Her lip is trembling – she’s going to cry with the pain. Another contraction ripples through her and this time, she pushes with it. A stuttering half-sob is ripped from her lips as she pushes and then she relaxes again, panting, crying, exhausted. “How much longer?” she begs Romanoff.

     The other woman takes a deep breath. “I have no idea.”

***

Skye is shaking. She feels weak and ill and the world around her is out of focus. She’s barely seeing Natasha kneeling on the end of the bed. Everything has narrowed down around her and she swears, every time she pushes, she feels her baby slip further inside.

     She wants to think about her team, but the thoughts won’t come. She wants to think about Ward, just to give herself something to feel other than _pain_ , but her entire past life feels distant. All she can think is that there is a _baby_ almost in this room. _But it’s only a two-bedroom room!_ she thinks miserably, and then she wants to laugh at herself and how ridiculous her brain is being.

     The contractions peak and then fade slowly, before a new one comes. They do remind Skye of waves. She can understand why people describe them as waves so often now. They make her think of beaches, of the tide.

     Dimly, Romanoff’s voice filters through her ears. “Come on Skye, just a little more, you can do it.”

     Skye wants to say _you do it then, if you’re so sure_ but she also really wants to push and it’s the need of her body that wins out.

   And then she feels something new, and Natasha is saying, “Oh, my god, I see its head. It has a head. This is the most terrifying thing I have ever seen.”

     “It _stings_ ,” Skye whimpers, because it does, it really really does, _hell_ this burns.

     “Come on,” Natasha tells her. “Just shove that baby out here.”

     Suddenly, Skye doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want it to be a physical baby. She wants to keep it inside her, where it is warm and safe and hidden from Ward. “Please,” she murmurs, and she stutter-pants through the next contraction and does everything she can to keep from pushing.

     “ _Skye_ ,” Romanoff insists. “Push. Come on. I want to see her beautiful little face.”

     She’s only half-hearing the words, but they register with her. Skye wants to see her baby’s face. She wants to see her baby girl.

     She thinks she’s groaning as she pushes again, and really, she’s only doing half the work – it’s the contraction, rushing through her, that is pushing. It’s a high-pitched keening that pours through her throat and her clenched teeth and her hands are clutching at the bedspread beside her – and then there’s an intense pressure and time slows down and stretches out and when Skye comes back to herself there’s an uncertain, hiccupping cry filling the room.

     Natasha breathes, “Skye,” and she’s lifting the baby girl, all bloody and wet, tiny fists waving raggedly, little face scrunched up. Skye tries to sit up, tries to reach for the baby, but she’s still feeling contractions, although they’re slower, and much weaker.

     Carefully, Romanoff pulls the knife from inside her boot and cuts the umbilical cord. She ties it in a little knot, right where the baby’s new bellybutton will be, and then she lifts the tiny thing with two hands and places her on Skye’s chest.

     Skye can’t breathe. She can’t do anything. All of the pain that’s been haunting her for the past eight hours seems to vanish and disappear, and all she can do is stare at this tiny child burrowed into her arms, warm wet skin pressed against her chest. She says, “Oh,” and then she can’t say anything else, because the words clog and choke up her throat and her eyes are watering and her nose feels hot and just… she’s crying. She’s crying over this tiny slip of a child, over this perfect nose and perfect cherub mouth and those tiny ears and those beautiful, miniature fingernails.

     It’s awkward, trying to hold the baby close to her breast, but the infant is kicking and opening and closing that little mouth like a baby bird, and eventually Skye gets the position right and feels the child latch on and it hurts, a little bit, a tiny bit, but it’s incredible. She stares down at the baby and strokes a finger down the delicate cheek.

     She has a daughter. Oh, wow, she has a daughter.

***

There’s the afterbirth, which takes a good forty-five minutes, and then Skye just holds her child for a while. Eventually, though, she starts to feel dirty and gross, and Natasha runs her another bath and Skye lumbers into the room and sinks into the water, and even though now she’s got a gross, sunken in, flabby tummy instead of a huge swollen one, she feels better. She sighs and dunks her head beneath the water and rinses away the blood and the sweat and everything else.

     After ten minutes or so of blissful relaxation, Natasha brings the baby girl in, and Skye holds her in the bath too, and rinses her little arms and her little legs. She brings her knees up and rests the baby against them. It stings when Skye moves, and she’s absolutely exhausted, but her daughter has huge brown eyes and a tiny pink mouth and she is absolutely worth it. Now, Skye thinks she understands why people keep having children regardless of the pain. The end result is the best reward she can imagine.

     Skye gets dressed in clean clothes that are a little bit too large for her now, and she and Natasha work together to give the baby a nappy made of a handtowel and swaddle her in one of Skye’s hoodies, because hello, they have no baby stuff.

     At some point Skye hands the baby off to Natasha to hold while she gets back into the bed, and she climbs up and sinks down into the mattress and falls asleep instantly.

     Quietly, Romanoff rocks the baby. She looks down at the tiny face and when the little girl smacks her lips in her sleep, Natasha puts her little finger to the child’s mouth and lets the baby suck on it drowsily.

     “Hi,” she whispers. “Welcome to the universe.”

     The baby yawns, scrunching her entire face into the motion. She closes her eyes, long lashes brushing her cheeks, and she sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now, here's my question. I can see this going one of two... no wait three... ways. I'm considering all of these options but would like your opinions to bolster mine! So, either I can write up the next week of the baby's life - up to and including the day she meets the team. Equally, I can skip right ahead from this point and write sort of an epilogue chapter set five-ish years in the future. I could combine those, and do the baby's next week AND a future epilogue. OR I could write more than one new chapter about the baby and then have a future fic sequel. 
> 
> Alternatively, I could just leave it here. That probably won't happen, given that I still have loose ends to wrap up, but let me know where YOU think this story should go next! What do you want to read about?
> 
> Thank you all, as always, for your super glorious reading and kudos-dropping and commenting. I adore comments, so if you've been reading this fic but have been too shy to comment, please do comment! Comments make my day and are what inspire me to keep writing. :D So thank you all!


	16. The First Week (1)

On the first night, Skye sleeps on her side with the blankets tangled around her waist and the baby beside her. She spends a lot of time with her eyes open – just staring at the new little girl. Unable to believe what she’s seeing.

     She feeds the baby twice during the night. The second time, she wakes up when she feels the child stir and the little mouth rooting against her through the cotton of her shirt. It makes her laugh, which rouses Natasha.

     “Skye?”

     “Sorry,” Skye whispers. She lifts up the baby and pulls down her shirt to let the child feed. “Baby just doesn’t understand the difference between breasts and clothes.”

     There’s silence for a little while, and Skye thinks she might be dozing off again, leaning back against the bed with her child in her arms.

     Natasha says, “I consider you a friend, you know. I just wanted to tell you.”

     Skye shifts a little bit and opens her eyes. She smiles in the darkness and returns, “I consider you a friend, too, Natasha. I also consider you a midwife and a fish, but that’s beside the point.”

     Romanoff chuckles at that and then they both drift off into sleep again.

     In the morning, Skye gets a fun crash course in cloth nappy changing and washing. She really wishes that they’d thought to pack bleach. And pegs for their nose. This is super gross.

     “You were _just_ born,” she tells Baby. “How the hell can you need to poo this much?”

     Baby scrunches her tiny nose and curls up her little fists. Skye kisses her on the forehead and the nose and the cheek as she wraps up the nappy neatly again.

     It gets dark fast. Skye starts wincing every time she moves, because her nipples are sore and scraping against the cotton of her shirt. She has to borrow tampons from Natasha for some weird after-birth period. This is not glamorous.

***

Skye barely sleeps on the second night. She spends most of it feeding her daughter, and sharing a bed with the baby is freaking her out. She wakes up every time the child moves.

     In the morning, she pulls down her shirt _again_ and says, “You’re just like a little balloon full of milk or something. Where do you put it all?”

     Baby smacks her lips contentedly and Romanoff comes out of the shower towelling off her wet hair and laughs. “She does eat a lot,” she notes.

     “I feel like a cow,” Skye sighs. She removes the baby from her breast and tips the child up, waiting for her to spew milk everywhere.

     Natasha leans closer, peering at the little girl’s tiny face. “Have you decided on a name yet? We can’t keep calling her ‘baby’ forever.”

     “Not yet,” Skye says.

***

Skye spends the third afternoon leaning over the baby on the bed and cooing into her child’s face, trying to think of a name. Natasha packs up the cabin.

     “Nina,” she suggests.

     Skye shakes her head. “Too… stern.”

     “Lucy.”

     “Too common.”

     “Elsa.”

     Skye grins. “No Disney names! You’re as bad as Fitz.”

     Romanoff hauls the bags over her shoulder and trudges towards the door. She twists her head to grin at Skye. “You have a good team,” she says. “You’re lucky.”

     Skye leans over and kisses Baby’s chubby cheeks. “Stay with us,” she offers impulsively. “Coulson would love it.”

     Natasha sighs. “It sounds like a good idea,” she says, and Skye can hear the ‘but’ coming, “but I’m not sure if I can.”

     “Just think about it,” Skye says. She blows a raspberry on the baby’s tummy.

***

They leave early in the morning of the fourth day. Skye is exhausted as she climbs into the car that has been waiting outside the safe-house – and, of course, no car seat. She’s forced to cradle Baby in her arms as she sits in the backseat, praying that Natasha’s driving skills are as good as the rest of her skills.

     Halfway through their drive, the baby starts to cry, loud and unrelenting. The sound grates against Skye’s eardrums. It rockets around her head and makes the car feel too small and tight and awful – and her breasts are throbbing and heavy and her stomach muscles are aching from all the exercise she’s been doing to try and regain her strength.

     “This sucks,” Skye explodes abruptly.

     Natasha looks back from the front seat with an expression of sympathy. “In a few days, you’ll be introducing Baby to your team,” she says. “Think about that.”

***

They spend a night in the car and Skye’s breath fogs against the windows. She curls tightly around the baby and hopes that she’ll stay warm.

     On the fifth day, they drive more. Skye takes her turn briefly, surrendering the baby to Natasha, who probably holds her even more tightly than Skye did. They both read a lot of books, and they talk a lot, and play ‘I Spy’.

     “I’m scared for when she gets older,” Skye confesses at one point in their drive. “She’s so tiny and perfect right now, and I have no idea how to take care of her, but at least she’s too small to be hurt by words. She doesn’t understand the world. What if one day she learns… everything?”

     “How did you deal with growing up?” Natasha asks.

     Skye shrugs. “I just… did, I guess. I’m a glass-half-full kind of person.”

     “Then teach her to be optimistic like you,” Natasha advises, “and she’ll do fine.”

***

The sixth day is the day they arrive at the meeting spot. Skye’s heart is pounding at the thought of meeting the team again tomorrow.

     She’s also terrified that the return to the team will signify her departure from safety. She has felt so protected, these past weeks, with Natasha. Once she’s back on the plane – back in the thick of things, missions and Hydra and SHIELD – she can’t guarantee Baby’s safety in the same way that she can here.

     She holds her daughter all day. She feeds her and changes her and watches her sleep and never puts her down. When they go to bed, she sets the baby down beside her and leans forward to kiss the tiny child all over her precious face.

     For the first time, Skye whispers, “I love you,” and just like that, she knows the baby’s name.


	17. The First Week (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you read right. This is the final chapter. :O Seventeen chapters is too long for a single fic. We'll see where things go with a sequel ;)

The plane circles around and touches down gently in a field not far from where Natasha and Skye are standing like some kind of pseudo-family – Skye with the baby and the backpack, Natasha with the rucksacks and her hand on Skye’s shoulder.

     “I’m nervous,” Skye breathes.

     Natasha smiles over at her. “No, you’re not,” she informs the younger woman. “You’re _excited_.”

     The ramp is lowering as they tramp over the fields towards the plane, and the team is piling out. Skye clutches the baby closer to her chest. She sucks in a sharp breath, and then they’re close enough to see each other clearly and she can hear the team exclaiming loudly – Jemma’s voice above all the rest – and she lets a huge grin spread across her face, because she can’t stop it.

     “Guys,” she says, and she stops in front of them and shifts her arm so that the baby is facing them, and she tucks the clothes away from the child’s face, “this is Hanna.”

     “Oh, _Skye_ ,” Jemma breathes.

     They go inside the bus and explanations are forced out of Skye urgently. She and Natasha are made to tell and retell the story of the birth – and Hanna is passed around gleefully, to be held and cooed over by every member of their little team. At one point, Skye looks up from a mug of hot chocolate which was pressed into her hands by Triplett, and sees May rocking slowly from foot to foot, smiling at Hanna and stroking the little downy fuzz on her baby head.

     Jemma digs out some of the baby supplies that they’d bought months ago, and so for the first time Skye is able to put a proper nappy onto Hanna, and dress her in a tiny adorable baby onesie with little blue ducks on it.

     Fitz is holding the baby and sitting on the couch when he looks up at Skye and asks, “Why Hanna?”

     Skye shrugs. “I don’t know. It just… felt like her name.”

     “Hanna What, though?” Jemma questions.

     Skye stares blankly into the distance. A crease appears between her eyebrows as she thinks. “I actually have no idea.”

     “Just Hanna,” Fitz supplies handily.

     “Huh,” Skye says. “I guess I’ll finally need to pick a surname for myself.”

     Fitz opens his mouth and both Skye and Jemma forestall him with a frantic waving of hands. “ _Don’t_ say anything, Fitz,” Jemma says firmly, and then Hanna screws up her little face in the precursor to a tantrum so Fitz hands her over.

     “See that?” he says to Jemma accusingly. “You made the baby cry.”

     Skye undoes the top two buttons of her shirt and offers her breast to the baby. She realises that yes, she’s sitting in the middle of the lounge and there are two arguing scientists right next to her, but really, if she has to go into her bunk every time she wants to feed this child, she’s going to become very socially isolated. And besides, it’s safe to say that everyone on this plane has seen breasts before. That’s a reasonable assumption to make, right?

     She hisses, “Fitz!”

     He looks over from his argument with Jemma. “What?”

     “You have seen breasts before, right?”

     He flushes, but his voice is somewhere between proud and scornful as he says, “’Course I have.”

     “Sorry. Just checking.”

***

Skye is close to passing out on the lounge later, with her knees propped up and the baby lying against them, staring solemnly at her face.

    “She’s memorising you, you know,” Coulson says.

     Skye whips her head around and beams, because she hasn’t spoken to Coulson much since they arrived back. He dragged Natasha off somewhere to ‘debrief’ her. “She’s what?”

     “Memorising your face,” Coulson explains. “So that she knows you’re her mother every time she sees you.”

     “Babies do that?” Skye pauses. “Wait, how do you know babies do that?”

     Coulson smiles proudly. “I read a book,” he boasts.

     “That’s nice,” Skye nods. “That’s impressive. You read a book.” She smirks, unable to resist teasing him. “I, though, I made a baby. Tell me, Coulson, can you make a baby?”

     He scowls at her. “A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

     Skye grins. “You’re right. Thank you, AC.”

     “Actually,” Coulson says grimly, “maybe you shouldn’t thank me just yet. We, ah, we need to talk.”

***

Skye leaves Hanna with Jemma and Trip. She should have realised something was off, she thinks now. It’s plain in both of their faces. They have very communicating faces.

     “Jemma,” she says slowly.

     Her friend takes the baby and cuddles her close. “I can’t say anything, Skye, so don’t ask me to.”

     “Be strong,” Trip says stubbornly. “I don’t care what they say. Keep your own mind.” He’s frowning.

     “Okay,” Skye says, and she heads down the stairs to the cargo bay.

     Fitz meets her at the bottom. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and he leads her through the mesh of corridors that lead to the med pod.

     Coulson is standing outside. “Are you ready?” he asks.

     Skye is thoroughly uncomfortable with this whole situation. “No,” she says, and she steps through the doors anyway.

     Ward is sitting up in bed.

     That’s all Skye sees, because she presses her hands to her mouth and shakes her head frantically and backs towards the door and all she can think is that _she left Hanna alone, oh god, Hanna_.

     Natasha’s hands are firm around her shoulders, pressing into her back, guiding her forwards again. “It’s okay,” Natasha is murmuring into her ear. “I’m here to take him out, Skye, understand? If we need to.”

     Skye looks around, desperate with the feeling of betrayal. “You can’t take _all_ of them out!” she cries, and Coulson comes closer to her but she fends him off with both hands.

     “It’s not like that,” Coulson promises. “Skye.”

     And then Ward says politely, “Excuse me, but what’s going on?”

     Skye startles at the sound of his voice. The timbre is the same, but the tone is so very different. She turns towards him. “Ward?”

     He looks at her with wide eyes. “That’s me,” he says uncertainly, as though waiting for confirmation. And then he does – he glances at May just to double check.

     May nods, tightly. “That’s you,” she says, so Ward looks back at Skye.

     “I’m Ward,” he says, pleased with himself. “Grant Ward.”

     Skye turns and she stares at Coulson. “What have you done?” she grinds out, enunciating each word clearly.

     Coulson holds up both hands. “This was his choice,” he says, taking a step away from Skye. Honestly, Skye isn’t surprised by that, because she feels as if she’s shooting flames out of her ears right now.

     “How can this be his _choice?_ He doesn’t even know his own name!”

     “I do know my name,” Ward interrupts. “It’s Grant Ward.” He pauses as if waiting for a prize or something.

     “Well done,” Coulson obliges him. “That’s very good, Ward.”

     The Ward-who-is-not-Ward beams.

     “ _Coulson_!” Skye bellows. “Tell me!”

     “He knew it was the only way he’d be able to see the baby,” Coulson says simply. “We were never going to trust him again. This way he’s still here, and he’s still able to protect you both, and we can trust him like before – at least, that’s how he put it.”

     “He can’t remember anything,” Skye mutters.

     Coulson confirms it. “He can’t remember anything.”

     “But bloody hell, Coulson, this isn’t making Ward _trustworthy_ again, this is killing him! He’s dead!”

     “He’s not,” Coulson says. “He’s right there.”

     Skye stares at Ward. He waves at her like a child, or an idiot, someone who has no experience with the world and no idea what’s going on.

     “I will never forgive you for this, Coulson,” she says. “Never.” And Skye storms upstairs to find her child.


End file.
